You Can't keep a good wolf down
by vampireatdusk
Summary: Margaery, of the house Tyrell, is imprisoned for a crime she did not commit. There she meets an enigmatic prisoner, who holds more secrets than he tells. But outside events are happening that will allow them both to take their revenge. Why? Because the north remembers. First thing that I have wrote in many years, so please be gentle with me. G.R.R Martin owns it all.
1. Chapter 1

"Seize the adulteress and put her in a black cell!"

Even before the guards of the city proclaimed why their presence was in this space of jovial tranquillity, Margaery Tyrell knew that it was an ill omen. The men themselves had an air of superiority, which had presented itself in their cruel, and malevolent smirks. They might as well have been ravens, with all the dark tidings that they seemed to be bringing.

The words reverberated in head, turning her body numb as the golden cloaks grabbed her.

"What is the meaning of this, you are about to assault the King's betrothed!" cried her cousin, the Elinor Tyrell. Margaery noticed, with a feeling of warmth that Elinor's feeling of outage were echoed amongst the other members of the entourage, seated throughout the tent.

"This arrest is ordered by the Queen regent, as she has reason to believe the lady Tyrell has been unfaithful towards King Joffrey" the gold cloak replied with a cruel smirk upon his face.

"I will go willingly" stated Margaery, with whom, inside was feeling anything but willing to go through with this façade of Cersei's creation, "But inform my Grandmother at once". Save me grandmother, she thought desperately as the gold cloaks grabbed her and roughly and pulled her from the cool shade of the tent, and what felt like, out of her element as well.

As she was lead out of the tent into the bright sunlight, she could her friends shouting for her grandmother to be notified at once, which brought a savage joy to her. Let them take me, she thought, The castle, what once was bright and happy place, held no warmth for her now as the soldier led her through the garden, to the Red Keep. She was scared, that much anyone could see, her alabaster skin paler still, and what rosy colour there had once been, had been drained from her smooth, satin-like cheeks. The noble people, whom once might have been her allies and friends, when they walked by her, maintained their averted eyes and stoic silence.

The black cell's name was apt, she thought as she was led down the stairs, into the darkening labyrinthine passageways towards her new home. The floor was plastered with dirt, filth found only here and flea bottom, but more worrying, was the congealed matters on the floor, that looked like skin and blood, but which she refused to think about.

I have done nothing wrong. That was the only thing that stopped her from losing the last vestiges of calm that remained to her. If not for that, she would have screamed until the Keep itself crumbled in the march of time. But no, she thought, she was a Tyrell, and this one would make sure to show her thorns. But, even as she resolved her will, a small thought, in the recesses of her mind, was thinking that even flowers suffer in darkness.

"In there, whore!"

The gold cloaks jeered, pushing into the squalor that was the cell. She stumbled into the cell, falling with a cry, earning a chorus of cruel laughter from the soldiers. With a harsh metallic clang, the door of the cell slammed shut.

"Please, leave a candle for light for me, I beg?" she begged. She knew how she sounded, but she didn't care. She couldn't survive, trapped in the darkness with no reprieve. Thankfully, the gold cloak turned and after seeing his eyes drift downwards to the ruin of her dress, through which he could see the barest glimpse of her breasts, he allowed a torch to be placed in the rusting metal bracket attached to the wall. She looked down at herself, and scowled when she saw the state of her dress, which was in tatters and almost indecent.

Once the gold cloaks had disappeared up the flight of stairs, their echoing footsteps marking their journey, as down here there was the absence of sound, Margaery turned and begun to examine the cell itself, pulling her ruined silk dress about herself, to preserve what was left of her modesty.

The cell, due to the positioning of the torch, had one corner of the cell in darkness. The rest of the cell, which looked to be in a state of permanent damp. The slab of black stone that served as a bed was covered with moss, and chipped and scratched so much that Margaery had an inkling at least several people had been killed there. The cell itself, was a smallish room, with the gentle curve of one wall, so the farthest corner, was obscured from the front of the cell's view.

Margaery sighed, thinking and situation that she currently found herself in. Cersei was behind this, with her schemes, and her imagined slights that had been delivered from Margaery. She will pay for this, Margaery vowed, as the Lannister's weren't the only one who paid their debts.

She had been so absorbed in the feelings of anger and betrayal for Cersei, which were as if a candle had been replaced by an inferno, that she was blissfully unaware.

"So, today is the today, to be sure?" said a croaky, almost unused, voice from the corner, which was a black as pitch. Margaery shrieked, falling and scuttling backwards, to end up, chest heaving, against the wall furthest from the person. My dress is completely ruined now, she thought, but there were bigger concerns, as the person moved into the light, wearing a frayed blindfold. He weakened, she thought pityingly, as he crawled into the light, as was evidenced by the way that grey doublet he was wearing, hung off him. After a moment he took off the blindfold with trembling, dirty hands, and she stared, for he was handsome, she could see that now. The blindfold gave way to bright blue eyes, which seemed to have a confidence about them, as though the man behind them was resigned to his fate, here in the squalor and darkness. Even as she stared, she realised, as the rosy blush slowly crept back across her face, that beneath the layers of grime that accumulated on his face, he was young, very young, perhaps even her own age. After the shock abated, she set her face into a mask of indifference. She did not know how this boy was, nor what he had done to so deserve this fate.

Man POV

The man stared at this girl, whilst familiar in her looks, not least her beauty. She was beautiful, he thought as he took off the blindfold, ripping it in the progress, as he squinted into the light. Her face was angelic, with large, soft brown eyes, luscious brown curling hair. From what he could see of her foetal position, her figure, slender whilst shapely, was complimented by skin as white and as perfect as snow. Snow, he thought, frowning at himself for the distant memory of snow.

"I apologise for startling you. If I might be so bold as to ask your name, my lady?" He asked, in a voice as rough as the room the question appeared in. the evidence for the title of lady was apparent in her beauty and what was left of her dress, stitched with what looked like the finest silks.

"Accepted, and my name is Margaery of the house Tyrell" she replied, and his eyebrows travelled as high as her stature. What was the Rose of Highgarden doing in the black cells?

He voiced these thoughts saying "forgive me, my lady, but I'm unaccustomed to seeing beautiful roses growing in these four walls. What befell you?" with a soft smile. Girl opposite him, looked like she might favour him with a smile in return, until her face betrayed her feelings, as it showed anger beyond measure.

"The majestic lioness, the Queen Regent Cersei is the reason that roses are growing here' she replied her voice her once soft eyes, alive with scorn for her. Cersei, the man thought, her and her lord father, Tywin, were the people who he blamed for his current predicament, but the person who he hated above else, the spoilt boy king.

"What happened, if I may? Did you upset her son, Joffrey Rivers?" he softly spoke, and smiled, showing bright white teeth, as her eyebrows joined his, atop their respective foreheads. She then, surprised him, by laughing, looking shocked, and strangely, impressed by the fact that he dared not only, say the whisper that had cost so many people their lives.

"My, you are courageous, ser,' she replied laughing, showing, in his humble opinion, a truly radiant smile, 'but nay, the blond child king had naught to do with this. The Queen Regent arranged for my change of accommodation due to rumours of my infidelity," she finished, the smile turning fierce.

It was as she had moved laughing, that her dress had slipped on her person, revealing her breasts, in all of their pale glory, as yet their owner in blissful ignorance, but this was far more woman he had seen in a long while. He blushed, a dark red, coexisting nicely with his dark red hair, shooting across his filthy complexion, as he said turning away slightly as he said "my lady, as much as I like the bare skin of a woman, especially as one so fair as yourself, my honour forces me to say that your dress has revealed more of your person than you would have liked", with a small playful smirk.

She started, looking down, then hurriedly covering herself to preserve what was left of her modesty.

"My, honourable and courageous, an infrequent sighting in the capital. You are a unique person, ser. Might I ask your name and the reason as to why I find you in this prison?" she queried, smiling a sweet smile. this was a man that, the seven be pardoning against his crimes, that she would very much like to get to know better, if he was of some standing in noble birth.

But this question was to go unanswered, as the memories of his family flooded the man, and his face fell to the coldest ice. Unbidden, unwanted, the thoughts of the events culminated to the reason for his incarceration flouted to the forefront of his mind.

"Trying to save my family, and my thrice-damned honour" he muttered bitterly, so low that Margaery had to lean in, to hear him. He continued talking in the voice so frost filled, that it must have been born north of the wall.

"But the Lannister's gold and influence will not dissuade me from exacting revenge on them all, even the bastard born Tommen and Myrcella. None shall be left in our wake because,' he moved back into the shadows slowly, lying down as he did 'winter is coming".

Greyjon POV

Jon Umber, the one they call the Greatjon, woke fitfully from his slumber, blinking fast into the darkness of the Twins. Turning over, he closed his eyes, trying to delve back into the sleep that so eluded him. But now that he was awake, his mind was drifting, as much as he did not want it, back to the events of the wedding. The wedding that was the downfall of the old and glorious house of Stark. He blamed himself to no end of degree. The Young Wolf had relied on him, as his most trusted champion, and on the night of the savageness and brutality of the betrayal, where was Robb's champion? Drinking himself out of his senses with the people who would harm him. He did manage to take some of them with him he thought grudgingly. As they tried to restrain him, he managed to take a few of the turncloaks with him, as they came at him with sword and spear, but there were too many of the bastards. They chained him, restraining his arms, But he was not some flowery southerner, He is an Umber, so when his arms where of no more use to him, he used his teeth to fight them off. But the results was still the same. The north lost the best of it, he thought sourly, including his own blood Jon, although not at all miniature, called the Smalljon, to the Bolton soldiers, people they once called brother in arms.

But now there were few people of the north left in the Twins. He knew, deep down that the Young Wolf, Robb stark, was dead, although he had not seen the final blow, he knew it as much as Lady Caitelyn Stark. And now he and the other North Lords were stuck underneath the Twins, waiting for their blood to bend the knee and give fealty to the gods damning Bolton.

He sighed, blowing the thoughts away as snowflakes in the wind, as he sat, then stood as his bladder began to sing to him. Moving his muscular, giant-like being across the cell that, for anyone else would have been far above their heads, but for him, he has to bend his giant-like proportions. Once his piss had ran its course, he slowly drudged back to the bundle of blankets that was his bed. Lying down, he longed for The Last Hearth, his home by right, and the time when wolves were the kings of the North.

He woke suddenly to the sound of a shout. Blinking, he sat up in his nest of furs. There was no shouting normally. Everyone here was resigned to their fate, unless the stinking shit pile of a lord, Walder Frey, needed "incentive for of one of the captives' blood, outside of the nightmarish place, The Twins had become.

Again, he heard a scream, this time accompanied by the all too familiar clang or swords, kissing each other. The Greatjon rose, quickly, and deceptively quietly for a man of his size. Something was queer about the situation. Besides the screams and the clangs of steel, which had arrived as quickly as they had left, the castle was in deathly quiet, although it too, was holding its breath.

"Guards?" he shouted, the foreign feeling of fear, prickling down his neck. The guard's came walking through the long corridor, to come to slow stop outside his own cell.

"You got something to say, Greatjon?" The guard said gruffly, by which showing evidence that they were completely at ease about the situation, or ignorant of the fact that there was one. The other guard, shorted and larger than the first yawned sycophantically, showing their inattentiveness for the guarding of warriors.

"I was wondering which whorehouse your mother was from" he replied with an arrogant smile. He would let the scene play itself out, and let those simpletons to their own dumb luck. The Frey's went back to their station outside their room, with no small amount of grumbling and cursing. The Greatjon should there, a pace away from the retched bars, waiting for something to happen.

He hadn't waited long when a shout of surprise, as well as a gurgle and splatter. There was then heavy and quick footsteps back up the corridor towards the cells. As the Greatjon took a step back from the cell bars, the shorter guard came into sight as he tripped and fell on the ground and shuffled quickly back, his own back against the bars.

They Greatjon slipped his arm through the bars, grabbed the ignorant guard by the neck, so quickly that the guard only knew what was happening when he was choking on his last few breaths, with his feet dangling above the cold stone floor. Grunting and grimacing, still holding the small fat man off the ground, he broke the man's neck, with a satisfying crack, then dropping the man's corpse to the ground, where he crumpled, like a puppet with its strings cut. That was for my son, you son of whore, he thought, exacting some small part of the revenge he had planned Breath heavy, he stepped back from the bars, as the hall once again descended into silence.

Wait, not silence. Footsteps, so quiet and so frequent, it seemed that there was a plague of mice racing down the stone floor towards him. The footsteps seemed to get more infrequent as some of the footsteps broke off, but there was no mistaking one mouse moving towards his cell. And as the footsteps became far too loud to ignore, a man in a mixture of boiled leather and grubby armour stopped in front of his cell. He briefly looked as the giant that stood before him, before turning his head and calling in a carrying whisper,

"He's here, my lord".

The moment after that, another figure in armour appeared at his cell door, holding a torch of burning pitch. This man was taller than the other, with a longsword that was bathed in blood. He exuded confidence, even in the castle of, as evidence by his bloodied sword, filled with his enemy. His armour had a sigil emblazoned on the front, but in the poorly maintained light, and due to the sun like brightness afforded to him by the torch, the Greatjon's eyes had not adjusted quickly enough to identify it. The man studied the man he saw in the cell before him jokingly before saying gravely, in a voice as gravelly as the stones at the bottom of a river,

"You have had bigger shits than this room. Come on, old friend, I would see you freed from this place of seven hells".

The Greatjon, suspicious that the knight before him knew his name.

"If you would reveal yourself Ser, I would respond in kind" he responded cautiously, as this mysterious man accepted keys from one of the other members of his party and began to unlock the cell door

"Acceptable, but we must not over stay our hospitality, especially with this family, who are more than content killing guests" he said before pulling his helmet off. Inside the Greatjon saw, to his happiness, a lined, weathered face, bushy storm cloud grey eyebrows, which are the clouds above his river blue eyes. All of this was framed with greying shoulder length that had once held the promise of auburn hair. The clasp under on the man's armour, now unneeded as he recognised the man, was that of a trout, made from the darkest obsidian.

"Blackfish! Good to see you too! It could only be you to attempt something as fucking brilliant as this!" Greatjon whispered, although not through lack of enthusiasm, as he moved forward and both men hugged each other quickly, before re-emerging in the dark situation that they found themselves in.

Right,' the Blackfish said, the ghost of the smile that had been present, slipping away, 'we came here to rescue you, because we need you to help rescue someone" he replied, with a savage grin upon his face.

The Greatjon looked disenchanted with that, and it presented itself as he spoke,

"We would need the North for that, and there is now way in all of seven hells, that I am following that man" he said, his hatred bubbling to the surface. The North remembers. He certainly did.

"What if I told you, that there was another we could follow, one who would bring you the north and howl for blood?" The Blackfish cryptically uttered, although the Greatjon sense that he was happy over news of something.

"One of the Starks? Which one? Bran? Rickon?"

"Not so young. The one we would follow, we would follow again. Robb stark, the Young Wolf and King in the North, lives".


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- Snow falls again

Cold.

That was the first thing he felt, which surprised him. His last memory was his sworn brothers led by Marsh and Thorne leading the revolt. They cornered him, and fell upon him with their knives, and their words. After they had their knives bloodied and there revenge sated, they had left him there, losing his life blood, and lamenting ghost, his only companion here, in the world that was his kingdom of ice.

He dreamed of a world of sand, and with sun and snakes. He dreamed of a woman of gold and blue, slowly sultry walking towards him. She stopped, in front of him, stood up on her toes, and said, in husky voice,

"The bastard of Snow and sand".

This then dissolved into blurs, until it reached clarity, but this time he can see the surroundings in which he found himself in this world. He was stood at the top of a pyramid of stone that would have camouflaged itself into the desert that surrounded it comfortably, had it not been for it reaching for the heavens. The balcony he found himself on was open to a room inside the pyramid that was draped in luxury, everywhere he looked there were silks and jewels, but more queering was the decorations, and jewellery, of dragons. A noise behind him, that of walking falling, quickly brought him out of his reverie of observation as he turned quickly and catch his breath. The woman that stepped from the bathing water, with the water that made the noise falling from her supple thighs, was an eerie beauty, so striking was it that he could do nought but stare. She seemed to like this reaction, as she giggled at him lightly. He noticed by the lack of lines on her fair hair, that she was of his own age, erring on the side of youth. Her face, that was the epicentre of the beauty, although her breasts, in all their charm, certainly tried to keep his attention, but it was all for naught. Her piercing purple eyes, her silk spun white blonde hair, all captivated him as nothing else had. It was true, he had not seen a woman free of a man, since, kissed by fire Ygritte, but this was something else.

She appeared to have little or no modesty, as she walked towards him, still revealing all of herself to him, but from the smile that was stretching across the plain, that was her face, she seemed proud to have this effect upon him. By now, her naked pale smooth breasts were pressed against him, in contrast to rough, black cloak that he wore, to his woe now. She looked him in the eyes, the purple seeing straight through his black, and he could not begin to understand the depth of devotion that he saw there. As he thought this, a song drifted through the clouds, a song that was beautiful in its quiet sadness. It seemed to reach the heavens with its ferocity, yet move stone statues to tears with its quiet contemplation. As he turned, trying to catch a glimpse of the profound musician, the woman, for he had omitted to ask her of her name, spoke, and, oh her voice, was music in of itself to listen to, as she said,

"Listen, my love, for they are playing our song"

He turned back to her, perplexed. "Our song?" he asked, if just to hear her talk again.

She smiled, for she had a smile sweeter than honey, leaning against his chest and spoke with such joy.

"Why, dear husband, the song of Ice and Fire." He looked down her, but her and all of the splendour of this dream, were quickly fading, and darkening in front of his eyes, until the blackness consumed him once again.

As he drifted back from his waking dreams, lamenting that he was not staying there, Jon felt his body undergoing a most queer movement. It felt like being on a horse whilst galloping, but he was not riding it, as he could not feel the power of the horse in the way that he normally could. Keeping his eyes closed, for it would have taken all of the little energy he had to open them, he listened to what he could hear.

He could hear the steady breathing of a person, male or female he could not tell, whilst yet another person was a little distance to them, keeping pace with them, on their journey that was as of yet mysterious.

Years later, as it seemed to Jon even though he knew it couldn't have been more than a few hours, the horses started to slow. They finally stopped, and silence reigned, and he suppressed his questions, movements, everything, he simply waited, wondering who were the people his was with, and what were their intentions.

"It will not surprise us Jon Snow, for I knew you are awake" came the sonorous exotic voice that he had come to respect, as well as fear. Struggling, against himself more than anything, he opened his eyes. The world blossomed before his eyes, yet before anything was the great beauty, the lady of fire, Melisandre. Her copper hair, as red as the flames she would stare at, was framing her strikingly beautiful face, but he saw that she was not as serene as she had appeared before. Those blunt lines of her eyebrows were pulled low, and the corners of her ruby red lips were turning down at the corners. She is afraid, Jon thought, and it was that thought alone brought more fear than anything else.

He tried to pull himself up, to better reply, when he found himself unable to do so. He found, to his chagrin, that he had been tied, like a pack of food, onto the horse. He struggled briefly, until he heard footsteps behind him, and Ser Davos Seaworth walked into his field of vision, saying "if you would but wait, Lord Snow, then you won't end up killing yourself a second time". Jon froze, wondering if in all the cold, he had misheard him.

Once Davos had loosed the ropes binging him, Jon looked at where they would to be spending the night. They were on the edge of a forest, overlooking a glistening blackened lake. Looking across at the far bank, he realised that this was long lake. Looking through the forest carefully, he saw the western mountain range that he had grown up seeing upon the horizon, from the battlements of Winterfell. We must be closing in on Winterfell, he thought with childlike hope, which was dashed by the sharpness of memory as he remembered that the Bolton's inhabited the castle now, pervading the halls that he had grown up in with the poisonous flayed man.

Dusk was quickly falling, so whilst Melisandre quickly lit a fire from the dead wood that could be found, Jon and Davos unloaded the horses. Whilst doing so, Jon's trail of thought seemed to have one ending. Killing yourself a second time? Eventually his worried paranoia got the better of his judgement, and in a low carrying voice he breached the subject to Davos.

"Killing myself a second time?" he said, the quiver in his voice that meet the end of the question, betrayed his true feelings. Ser Davos' face clouded over, his shortened fingers moving to his chest, only to grasp at empty air. With a hastily, yet not unkind, muttering of "later, Snow" he turned his back on him as he went to find more firewood, for Melisandre to see her visions.

Later, when the full, fat moon was steadily flying higher in the dark sky, the three of them were huddled round the fire, the few spare clothing they had wrapped tightly around them, with the two horses picketed to trees a small walk away. The cherry red warmth seemed to alleviate their problems, just for the moment, even if Jon was ignorant of what had transpired. He broached the topic, as the others were drifting to the thoughts that preceded sleep.

"What happened?" Why did you say I died again?" he demanded, directing the second query at Ser Davos, who had risen from his relaxation, as he was reminded of what they had endured. He ran his shortened hand through first his hair, then his salt and pepper coloured beard, open his mouth to reply, but it was Melisandre who produce the words that Jon needed to hear.

"After your supposed brothers has turned on you, you lost your life blood and thus the spark to remain among the living. Ser Davos was warned of this when your direwolf cam to hi, leading him to your body. I had been reading the flames, as I do well into the dawn, and saw what had transpired, as I had warned you far too frequently to ignore,' she looked at him, with a hint of annoyance, Jon thought, but it was impossible to read her unblemished face. He wanted to voice his argument, but his voice failed him at the thought of Ghost and where his companion was now, 'and I hastened to find you. Fortunately the red god smiled upon me, for I still had power enough to start your heart and seal your wounds, to keep what was left of your life blood, in you.

After you were able to move, the two of us secured you to a horse, with ghost watching for the return of your would be killers, and then, forced the gate open, and rode as fast as the gods themselves. Ghost was fast, no one can deny, but the horses far outpaces him and he fell behind. He should be following us, and arrive on the morrow, if he hasn't stopped too often to quench his thirst and hunger. That was two days ago. Since then, we have been avoiding the Kingsroad as often as can be, lest we be discovered, but sooner or later people will know. But now, with you able to think and do, we will have to go slower, for sure, but we can also disguise ourselves better than before." She finished, showing vulnerability in her unspoken desire for sleep, reaching for the wineskin that remained to their group of companions. The black brother, the onion knight and the red priestess, oh the bards will sing their adventures in all the halls, he thought bitterly.

"So, what are we to do now?" Jon ventured. His future had ever been the black, until the day that he returned to his ancestors. Now, now that future had been stolen from him, leaving the space, empty, with sinister foreboding.

Again Davos was the one to open his mouth forming the words, when the priestess was the one to sing

"We are going to White Harbor" she stated simply, yet there was no small of amount of force behind them, as though there was no negotiation about it. Evidently, this was not what Davos' words would have spoken of, as he evidently looked as shocked as Jon felt, beneath the hollowed mount of his future that was now shrouded in uncertainty.

"If I may ask, my lady, why White Harbor?' Davos asked with a frown on his weathered face 'Where are we fleeing to, and more importantly, why?"

The red priestess sat still in that moment, staring at the fire, for such a long time that the darkness around the camp turned opaque, until eventually she answered.

"I have seen that visions of a merman and spider waiting for us there. Once there, they can help us, as we, or rather the two of you can help them" she finished staring them down with her crimson eyes seeing through them.

The merman is of house Manderly, Jon thought, but who is the spider? He would have voiced this question, but the time for talking seemed to have ebbed away, as the other two sat there deep in their thoughts, or in Melisandre's case the fire, and so he immersed himself in his own trails of thought. Robb would know what to do, he thought, but as his brain brought this message, he shut it off. He couldn't rely on Robb, as he wasn't here to help. With his mood worsened, he turned over and shut his eyes, dreaming of a time when wolves ruled the North.

He woke suddenly, as the light was just reaching towards them over the lightly sparkling lake. He stretched, and was about to forsake the warmth of his bed, when he heard heavy footsteps. Moving quickly, he jumped out of bed, reaching for Longclaw, which they had courteously brought with them, when he saw a white, something, running down the Kingsroad towards them. He paused, squinting at the now seemed to be animal sprinting towards them. His eyes widened, as the animal was close enough to ascertain what it was, and ran, gasping and clutching at his chest as he did so, to meet the new arrival. The collided at the edge of the rough pebbled road, and fell into an unruly mess on the road, with Jon's arms around the other

"Yes Ghost, I'm here. I have missed you" he wheezed with what little air was left in his lungs, as he stared into the red eyes of his steadfast companion. Ghost stared back, and although he made not a sound, his whole figure resonated joy, and his tongue was giving Jon's face a well-deserved bath, helping to get rid of the mud, and the darker stain of his own blood.

Eventually they untangled themselves and, still happy to see each other, ran back to the camp. Finally, Jon thought, I feel whole again. By this time the lake was sparkling with hundreds of jewels upon its surface, and the other two were up and preparing for the long day in the horse.

They rode at a slower pace, as they were out of immediate danger from Castle Black, and so Ghost could run alongside them. Davos rode with the dwindling food and blankets, whilst Jon rode with Melisandre. He might have trusted her, but that was not to say that he didn't fear her slightly, and so made sure to keep her hands securely around his waist, preventing them from moving, or trying anything else. More importantly, Jon had to wear rages over his nights watch clothing, as people would grow suspicious if they saw it. So the three of them, with Ghost as their silent watchman, wound their way past the long lake, past Winterfell, although giving it a wide berth. Jon didn't look at it, and even if he did, he wouldn't recognise it anymore, as it wasn't the place he knew.

Several days past in this fashion, all of them on the alert for anything on the horizon, none of them talking, too wrapped up in what the future held all of them. Together, they past the castle of Cerwyn, and raced the white knife river, as it speed past them into The Bite, until it was time to cross the raging current of water, via a bridge that seemed more stone than the wood it was made of.

But, as they closed in on their destination, the horses would go slower, the riders ever more nervous of some people recognising, and eventually they trotted to a halt, on a sparse hill, overlooking the only great city in the North.

The city sprawled out beneath them, like a carpet of stone. The houses made of some whitewashed stone, with grey slated roofs, intersected at every other house, by straight small stoned cobble streets, whilst the harbour itself was thriving with boats leaving on journeys, and some making port, delivering precious stock to the cold city. The keep of the Manderly's, the New Castle, stood opposite them on the adjacent hill, like a giant white cloud, with the iron grey slate roofs being the drops of rain spreading out from it.

"We must proceed with caution' Melisandre spoke, choosing to break the silence of their own making, ' There will still be enemies lurking within the city. It is best that we disperse ourselves, moving close but detached from the others, so as to not attract attention from the masses." The two others nodded, as they knew both the Frey's and Bolton's would have spies aplenty throughout the city and must tread carefully, lest they be caught unawares.

Jon left Ghost atop the hill, as a wolf would send a howling message throughout the city, whether they chose to hide or not. He did not seem to mind, rather he made himself comfortable in the snow, which had fallen heavily in recent weeks, and proceeded to recover from the journey that he had undergone. The sight of that brought a smile to Jon's face as they brought their horses around and slowly made the steep descent into the city.

The city itself was alive with people from all over the seven kingdoms, and even some from the free cities in Essos. Dismounting and leaving the horses on the precipice of the city, they entered. Jon, who had never seen a city before, disciplined himself from staring like a boy before manhood, but the sheer volume of people brought his guard up more than he thought.

They walked through the crowd quickly, not giving people long to observe them. Since it was Melisandre who had demanded they arrive at this shipping city, it was her that was in front of the other two, leading them through flood of people, as if she was holding a lantern in the dead of night. The other two were following behind, forming a rough spearhead through the crowds.

It was approaching dusk when they arrived at the gates of the New Keep, the wrought iron gates stopping them short of their intended. She walked quickly to the gates, and Jon saw the guards standing in front, moving his hand to the item of steel that was all too prominent on his person. She stopped, no more than a metre away.

"I hope that Lord Manderly is expecting the order of onions, both frozen and roasting" Jon caught her stating to the guard, and the change was immediate. The guard's hand dropped, his eyes widened, and a ghost of a smile flew across his face, before his face settled and he said in a voice devoid of the emotion he had previously,

"Yes, he is well aware of the shipment, and he is waiting at the place arranged" his eyes then flicked to Jon, somehow finding in the knot of people and whispered something to the red priestess, before she started back and weeping past them, and he in turn moved back into position, as though nothing had transpired.

Still moving in symbiosis, they followed her back to the outskirts of the city, and once there in the direction of a crumbling black castle, which houses clinging to it like limpets. There were fewer people moving around this area of the city, and so they all moved up to travel as a group, rounding the corned to the old castle's algae stained door. There seemed to be numerous beggars sitting around the entrance, Jon thought as he noticed the guard, giving them a frost filed look as they stopped in front of him.

"What are you here for, m'lady? Why aren't you moving along?" he demanded, and suddenly the beggars rose as one, to display steel aplenty that they showed the companions. This might have quieted the men, but the red woman did not flicker an eye more than needed are replied,

"We are here to pray for the Merman" she replied in clear, ringing tones that, in her exotic voice, had all the authority of Kings. It went unnecessary, however as the words alone were enough to still the steel scraping against scabbards. Again, their eyes flickered to Jon, but this time to Davos as well, and they surprised them both by kneeling quickly before being born again into their disguises, all except the guard who motioned with a jerk of his armoured head, to follow him through the door, into the candle light hall beyond.

As they slowly sauntered down the dimly light dark stone hall, Jon moved to behind Melisandre, and whispered,

"What did the guard of the Keep say?" he breathed into her crimson hair. She did not acknowledge the question with facing him, instead kept walking to the end, where there was a second guard in front of a large wooden door, inscribed with wolves and mermen. It was only when the guard opened the door, with barely a protest on the hinges that she deigned to give him a response

"What else Jon Snow? He said winter is coming", and with that she followed the guard into what looked like the throne room, with a prideful Jon and a distrustful Davos, bringing up the rear.

The three companions were lead into a great hall, although not as grand as the one living in Winterfell, it was by no means small. The walls of this hall were painted green, but an age had come and gone in this castle, and the black flacks underneath the paint pointed to the Stark origins. It had an empty, melancholy feeling to it, as there were rows of wooden benches, looking like they missed the people who had sit, and feasted in these walls. At the other end of the room was a dais, and on the dais were two people, one seated on the throne situated there, and the other standing.

The first person Jon could easily identify as Wyman Manderly, as he was the one so fat that he was forced to sit upon the throne, his own sausage like fingers tapping against the arms of his seat, as he talked to the other person stood next to him, his golden-orange like hair starting to wet, even though today was cloudless.

The door clanged shut with a tone of finality, and the two men started, putting an end to their conversation abruptly, and looked towards the other end of the hall as the guard proclaimed,

"My lords, The Onion Knight and former Hand to King Stannis, Ser Davos Seaworth, the former Lord Commander, and son od lord Eddard Stark, Jon Snow, and the Red Priestess from Asshai, the Lady Melisandre". The three remained impassive during the proclamation, although Jon had flinched even so slightly when the word former was used. Evidently he wasn't used to the new path his former brothers had decided to set him on. Never the less, as a single entity, the three of them walked together towards the seat, and starting their new path.

Now that the man had turned, Jon could see the man wholly. The man, as yet unnamed, although not stretching his silks as Lord Wyman was, there was a genial paunch to him. He was completely bald, with white skin whitened further by various powders. Jon had noticed a smell of lilacs as he approached the dais, but looking into the eyes of the man, he thought not to treat the man as effeminate. There was something in the expression, or was it in the eyes, that told him that this man was far more dangerous than his appearance told.

"My lords,' Wyman spoke attempting to, and failing to rise from his chair, 'And Lady' he added giving a nod to Melisandre.

"We, that is myself, and Lord Varys, have brought you here, at great personal risk, for the good of personal risk, for the good of the realm" Manderly proclaimed throughout the hall, indicating the man to his right. Melisandre remained calm as ever, having been involved in the making of the meeting, but the other two tensed like animals with their backs to the corner, Jon especially. Davos stepped forward.

"Begging your pardon m'lord, but this man is not to be trusted. He works for the Lannister's in Kings landing, feeding truths to the Bastard boy king" Davos shouted, and Jon was of agreement. This man was there when his father had been put to death, and yet he had done nothing.

Varys stepped forward, silk robes flapping slightly as he did.

"Whilst your trust being put upon those who earn it is well respected, you should extend me a courtesy, Ser. I have followed the Lannister's, but I serve the realm and the realm was better suited in fire and blood" he said, his effeminate voice carrying far.

"Under the Targaryen's? Why would anyone follow them now? They put my uncle and grandfather to death, and kidnapped and raped my aunt. Presumably it would have been a generous offer Varys, but one I cannot accept". And with that he began to march back up the hall. No one moved to stop him, but Varys' words stopped him as effectively.

"What if I told you your brother was alive?"

Jon stood still, as thought he had been carved from ice. How had he found out about Bran?

"I am aware of bran having survived the sacking of Winterfell" he muttered curtly, but in the silence of the hall, he might as well have shouted them.

The Spider laughed, and laughed hard. His sycophantic laugh boiled Jon's blood, as surely as this meeting was wasting his time. Eventually it subsided into mirth, as Varys spoke, with a strange gleam in his eye.

"Not Bran. Forgive me, Lord Snow, I should have said brothers. Rickon Stark, and the Young Wolf himself, Robb Stark both having survived."

Silence. The only sound was Jon's, and Davos, for Melisandre would surely have known, laboured breathing at the revelation, and the shift of fabric as Jon slowly sank to the floor, in sorrow.

"My brothers are dead, one killed by the turncloak Theon, the other at a wedding, against the ancient laws of hospitality" He eventually spoke, and everyone could hear the sadness rolling off him like rain from the clouds above.

It was Melisandre who spoke to him then, kneeling down, and said in a sympathetic, soft, voice,

"My magic didn't work. I saw it in a vision whilst at The Wall. Rickon Stark survived the sacking same as Brandon, but he went with the wildling women to hide. The young wolf however, was a different story. He was wounded it was true, but the bastard boy wanted to kill him on his wedding day as a sign of supreme dominance, so he was stitched up by the maester, and shipped to King's Landing, where he has been living in the black cells ever since".

There was silence, followed by Jon's ragged breathing. My brother is alive, he thought, his mood flying up to the rafters above. He stood slowly, turned around, and addressed the two lords before him.

"My lords, what would you have of us?"

Lord Manderly's eyes flitted to Varys' back quickly then back to Jon.

"We would have you swear the north to the Targaryen's when the cross the narrow sea, to retake their birth right. If you swear to send the dragons back to their throne, then we will help to send your brother back to his. He will have to swear allegiance of course, but we will sort out trivialities later. If you help in this, Lord Snow, the dragons will make you a Stark, if Robb does not make you one before that. Any thoughts, Snow?" He asked with a jovial smile that betrayed at the tension, like a storm trapped in a bottle, with the bottle painted with pretty flowers.

Jon stood there, in turmoil, thinking. Aemon Targaryen was the only dragon he had known, but the fire there had grown colder and was wise to what it burnt near. The dragons across the sea however, would be young and impatient, full of fire, and all of Westeros to direct it at. And yet. He desperately wanted to see Robb again, feel the companionship that he had not had since before the black, laugh at japes Robb told him. And he would be named a Stark, given power to marry a highborn woman and live together in a castle of their own lording. His mine wandered back to the dreams he had when he was recovering from death, to the first woman, then to the second. Something told him he would meet them on this path that the two men in front of him were offering. He stood up straighter.

"No, my lords, there should be no problem with that. Speaking as one who has re-joined life, it seems a shame to waste something so precious on Lannister's". His words raised the eyebrows of the men before him, yet they chose to say nothing of that yet. Namely, Varys stepped forward.

"Jon, we would have you set sail to Dorne within the day, as that is hopefully where Robb will be sent, and there will be other reasons besides, but none that I shall divulge at this moment. Suffice to say, all are good. Ser Davos, on the other hand,' he said, sighing as he did, turning to the tall man clasping his hands before him. 'We would have you fetch the other Stark boy, Rickon. The other Northern lords will believe Robb is alive when he returns, but we need to buy some time, before Roose Bolton has time to sway them over to him, and his army. So, the last my little birds tell me, the boy, the woman and the wolf of his, were last seen on the island of Skagos. We need for you to sail to the island, and return with the boy, and the wolf. The wolf is the proof we need that the boy is who we say he is."

"So my lords,' he said, straightening up and walking towards them, hand outstretched, friendship offered, 'do we have a deal?

Jon looked at the hand outstretched, then at Davos next to him, who swallowed at the prospect of sailing to Skagos. Yet, he was a man of true steel for he squared his shoulders, looked at Jon and nodded. Jon took the hand, doing something it felt like he hadn't done in a long time. He smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3- The wolf and snake together

"Here you are, Jon; home sweet home!" The Blackfish said, laughing a deep laugh as he showed the Greatjon the camp that the Brotherhood without Banners was housed in.

. The Brotherhood was the ones responsible for his improvised release from the twins, which was not even a segment of a moon ago, and they had been riding ever since, only stopping to relieve themselves and the horses sake for the brotherhood needed all the horses that they could get. Eventually, they were riding through a field with stony walls on three sides, and a forest cutting across the last side, when the Blackfish made them deviate and ride upon the trees. Once inside, the now dark landscape, they slowed their mounts.

"What the fuck do we do now?" The Greatjon asked quietly, but Ser Brynden waved his hand frantically, stilling him, and they watched the darkened trees together. It seemed even the trees were holding their breath. Then, there was a sigh, and an arrow appeared, catching the light as it buried itself in the tree next to Brynden, causing his hair to stir as it moved, startling all of them, and causing the horses to prance around, until the riders brought them back under their control.

"Your aim still needs improvement, Anguy" Brynden barked, which resulted in bales of laughter from darker areas of the forest.

"Can't blame me for practicing then" Came the jovial reply, and a small group of horses came upon them. They were all wearing rugged and mismatched armour that had yet to be cleaned so still had the rustic look from dried blood. The leading rider, the Greatjon presumed was Anguy, for he had the bow in hand with a quiver over his shoulder. Anguy urged his horse forward, and dismounted, with far more grace than expected. Leaving his bow around his trusting horse's neck, he walked forward.

"This is the fruit of your mission you undertook? Where are the others?" he enquired, frowning slightly. The Blackfish shook his head.

"They provided the distraction I needed, but I fear that they did their job too well". Anguy and the others looked forlorn at this news. Obviously, this was a true brotherhood if when men died it hit all of them this hard.

"Well they did their job. Here stands the Young Wolf's champion, the Greatjon" he said, looking the man up and down. Then he moved forward and said "You are surely needed here my lord. We have need of you for the mission at hand." They clasped Forearms.

"I have to help him. I failed him once, when I was too worried about how to acquire more wine. I failed the king in the North and Lady Stark both. I will not do so again." He solemnly said. He noticed then that the Anguy shared a brief fleeting moment with the Blackfish, but thought nothing of it.

They quickly made their way back through the now warm forest, the leaves lingering on their shoulders as they passed by, until they made it to the heart, where a small camp fire was burning, contrary to the numerous tents there. The people there were milling around talking to brethren and kin alike, when talk suddenly died in their throats. They turned as one, to stare at the group as they made their way through the tents. Then, as though the gods themselves forced them to, they knelt as one.

"Why do you kneel? I may be good, but I'm not that fucking good!" The Greatjon roared, laughing as he did. This comment brought confusion to the soldiers kneeling. The Blackfish moved to stand at his shoulder.

"You may have failed them the first time, but you won't fail them both this time" he stated, as the largest tent's entrance, surrounded by the others, was thrust aside, and two shadows moved into the dappled sunlight. As the Greatjon identifies the shadows, and his world takes on new dimensions, the silence is filled with laughter and wolf howls.

The black cell was silent, although there was the distant rumbling of a city that surrounded them waking up. It was this noise that woke the wolf, Robb.

Days had passed since the Lady Margaery had been forced to share the black cell that he had oh so happily occupied, his life had not seem so bleak. There was something about her. It could have been her kindness that she showed him, despite her own situation, she paid no heed to that. Or it might have been her humour, her japes that lifted his spirit, and made him like her more. Things had been complicated with Jeyne, and the Red Wedding was the ill gained fruit of the rotten tree. But with Margaery it seemed as simple as breathing. Things were so simple between them, almost as if they were destined. Robb snorted to himself, thinking such happy thoughts for a dead man pulling a wry smile as he sat up, against the wet stone wall.

The woman of his thoughts was currently lying next to him, her chest rising and falling gently, was covered by the doublet that he himself had worn. Just because of their predicament did not stop him being the man that his mother had taught him to be. Her arm, which was placed softly across his chest as they slept, moved aside as first he moved, then she did albeit in her sleep. With the soft obstacle removed, he stood up slowly, stretching sore and weary muscles. He was hungry, for food primarily, but it was more than that. He hungered for something, anything to happen. He hungered to see the godwoods, listen to the sound that he would listen to thousands of leagues away in his true home. He wondered vaguely if they had forgotten about him down here, in his new, smaller, kingdom. But the reality returned to him with a sting. Joffrey will his soul as black as pitch, would not have forgotten about such a prize for torture, especially when there was a Stark he could use Robb to bring pain to. He had not been allowed to see Sansa, and so she wouldn't even know that he still drew breath.

That idle fantasy was torn apart as Robb heard the metallic clang, as the noise sounded the presence of guards. The guards would bring food before dawn and before dusk, to make the prisoners suffer, he thought sadly, as the footsteps got louder as the guards approached the cells. Robb grudgingly started to walk towards the dark metal door, as they guards noises reached a crescendo as their feet appeared at the top of the stairs, with them murmuring to each other as they moved down the stairs.

The dream was further torn when the taller guard with a dark beard covering his lower face, smirking slightly, started talking.

"Looks like your time has come, your grace," he said, with a mocking courtesy, a smile emerging from his dark beard. "The days of the boy king have come to an end, now that his name day to be a man grown has arrived, with him holding a tourney in the time of peace for all lords. Not only that, but in his infinite wisdom, he will have you killed by the victor of the jousting, in front of your sister no less."

The smiles that the guard gave were spreading across the entirety of their faces, which was copied, almost by mummery, in the other, short guard. The smaller one, who had a milky white scar snaking across his lowed face, but in no way hindered him to smirk at the situation at hand. Whatever warmth that had been in Robb starting this morning, had left him feeling cold, with his face reflecting the white and grey of the Stark colours. He had long ago expected his own death, as he had every day since the red wedding, or so the guards had thrown the words at him in his darker moments.

As the guards pushed the single solitary tray of food into the dark cell, Robb moved quickly across the room and grabbed the trailing arm moving out of the cell.

"Please Ser, since this day seems to be my last, would you bring us more food to share before I am to go?" Robb pleaded with the commoner. It shamed him to have fallen so low, but that was the Lannister's doing, not his. Fortunately, fortune was kissing him today.

"I'm no Ser, but I will see to it that you get that extra food. Wouldn't want the King in the North to meet his end on an empty stomach, now would we?" The guard said, with a cruel twitch in his beard, but his eyes softened, and he nodded to Robb, before climbing the stone steps, behind his companion.

Robb breathed a sigh of relief. If this day was to be his last, then he wanted to be lead to his death with his head held high and walking proud, for more reasons than just his pride. His sweet sister, Sansa, would be amongst the crowd surely, so he had to assure her that this was, not alright for no matter how long he had stayed down here, he didn't want to die, but to discourage her from trying anything.

Sobering up, he walked back to his place of slumber, and slowly sat next to the still sleeping woman. But it seemed that this was the final straw for his sleeping, as she began to stir and drift back into reality. Robb watched as she slowly lifted her dainty head, her hair moving behind like a shimmering chestnut waterfall. He smiled a warm smile as she opened her eyes.

"Why good morn, my Lady, what chance this was, meeting you here." He japed, which earned him a sleepy smile from her, as she yawned sycophantically, stretching and underneath the doublet that was Robb's, revealing the sweet swell of her breast to him, which caused an unwanted return of smattering of blood to return to his face.

"Why my good Ser, the gods have truly blessed me to have meet you today." She returned the jape, that had become an event as the enigmatic man before her was always trying to raise her spirits.

Robb, try as he might, could not feel as happy as normal, so he sighed, his smile slipping of his face as easily as water runs off ice, and spoke gravely.

"My lady"' He began his voice cracking softly as he spoke, "This is to be last day in your presence. The king is to hold a tourney in honour of his name day, him becoming a man, and so he had decreed, in his infinite wisdom, that I am to be executed by the winner of the jousting".

Margaery looked at him blankly, for she did not understand. Why was he to be killed in front of the entire highborn class? Of course, she was upset about this, he was a charming, handsome man, he she fancied him dearly, but she knew that he was not highborn, not good enough, although she thought he was fiercely, for the marriage of the only daughter of the Tyrell Family, she thought sadly.

Studying her face, for she had been silent for a time, he could see this conclusion dawn on her, by the downward tint of her eyebrows, and not for the first time, he was annoyed with himself for not telling her who he was. Of course, it was wise not to, for her family had fought his in the war of the five kings, but it hurt him, her thinking that he wasn't good enough for her.

She turned towards him, a new flirtatious smile gracing her lips.

"Well if this is to be your last day with me, can you tell me more about yourself then?" She asked, her smile widening as she spoke, showing her gleaming white teeth.

Robb had a smirk of his own, by the end of her question. She had constantly been asking about his past, and what had brought him to be in this. But, contrary to what he wanted to say, he had to be careful about what he told her. Although it surely did not help his resolve when she looked at him like that, or when her fingers were lightly tracing the muscles on the nearest arm. After a moment of hesitation, he asked with a playful smile,

"Very well. I will not deny you this once. Ask away." Margaery sat up, eager now as the man opposite her seemed to have given in, at long last.

"Well, did you have any companions before all of this?" She asked, although Robb could her trepidation, as well as a hesitation at the word of companion. As the question was uttered, Robb's mind wandered down the path of memory. Jon, Theon, all of his other friends, all the girls of his childish fancies of Winterfell but two more drifted to the front of his mind. Firstly, there was Grey Wind, who had travelled everywhere with him, saved him from numerous people, but it was more than that. With the loyal wolf, there was a bond, which could not be broken. The other, as much as he loath to admit it, was Jeyne. Although the circumstances of their marriage were the crux of his situation, she had been kind to him, seeing as they had been spurned away from each other by their own families. Eventually, after a time of retrospect, he looked up to her, who seemed rather tense, tapping her legs with delicate fingernails.

"As far as companions go, there was one," He said, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone, "He was as loyal to me as was possible, and he saved my life more times than I would care to mention. But if you were asking about women, that's a different story. My….story was busy as I became a man grown, but there was one, a Jeyne Westerling. I was…emotional one night, being tended to by her, and one thing lead to another. Come the morn, and I disregard my honour for hers, and marry her that same day, but that had consequences. Which is why, I am having the best time possible here, and Jeyne is…at the Crag, or with a new husband" Robb finished was a sad note in his quivering voice. Margaery, as his story unfolded before her, had changed from warmth, to shock, but as Robb turned away, he saw a small smile form upon those rosy lips. But that quickly was vanquished by the overwhelming question in her mind. Who was this man, to marry a highborn girl?

"Who are you?!" she emphasised again, as this was knowing away at her brain. Robb looked to want to answer the only question that mattered, but he thought better of it. After a briefly muttered 'later' he turned over, closed his eyes, and let the nightmares consume him.

At the same time, before the sun's rays had yet to illuminate the waters surrounding the city, a boat, unimpressive and forgettable, surged into the harbour. But this boat was not alone. There was a man, waiting for it, shrouded in shadow, but for his stance, he had all the time in the world. As the boat approached the wooden jetty, ending its hard journey with a soft noise, the man moved forwards, meeting the occupants who were vacating, clasping the first man's forearm.

"Welcome to this shit pile, my new comrades" He said in a hypnotic, almost snake like voice, "Does everyone know their part to play in this, because there will be no going back?"

"Of course we fucking do" came the gruff reply. "As of course you do. Now let's leave this feast for our enemies' eyes and go do our duty". With that they walked, fast enough due to the giant of a man's pacing, into the city beyond.

Jaime POV

The day of his 'nephew' name day began with a startlingly bright morning for them to break their fast. The other men of the white were spread around the hall, whilst Jaime, Cersei and Tommen were seated at the gilded table near the window. This particular window was rarely used, due to the view if gave, of the city spread out below them, which although gave Cersei a sort of savage pleasure, she couldn't stand It most of the time.

The three of them were enjoying breaking their fast on honeyed cakes with bacon and wine. Well, Tommen was enjoying it at any rate, the adults were to tense and the day ahead to eat. Cersei turned on the bench to the servants standing behind them.

"Go and wake Joffrey up, would you?" The woman who was at the receiving end of the Queen Regents anger shook slightly, before running out of the room. Cersei turned around, smug smile in place, whilst directing her next question at Jaime.

"Are all the addition gold cloaks here for this? There will be Northmen here" she muttered, so as to not alert Tommen. Jaime looked briefly up before returning to cutting up his bacon.

"Aye, the jousting will take place, the winner will be crowned. Then the feast and dancing. Once everyone has drunk their weight in wine, then the King in the North will be presented to the crowd, and a sword to the winner. No one will be able to stop this, to many swords holding them in their seats" He finished with no emotion on his face, despite the turmoil within. Ever since the release of him via Catelyn Stark, the vow to her and the almost taking of his hand, he had tried to look out for Sansa, which was not easy, given the nature of his beloved. Which was why today was no happy occurrence for him.

At ends with his opinion was the King, who was announced by his page, then swaggered into the hall. He looked far too cheerful, Jaime thought, as he all but whistled moving to take his place on the bench for food.

"Is today the day that whoreson dies?" Was the first thing his reedy cruel voice sang as he grabbed for wine and bacon. Cersei looked to be content with this nodding her head to his question, but Jamie bowed his head, to mask his scowl. The king was too vindictive, too cruel to inspire loyalty.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur, or as fast as Jaime would later remember, and then they were passing from the red keep down into the Tourney grounds. The all too familiar jousting ground, the place of action, was surrounded by food, wine and laughter. There was a veritable flood of people, in all manner and colour of silks, eating and drinking, whilst most of them turning when he and the Queen Regent walked to be among them. Their lord father, Tywin, who had wished him every luck when he disowned Jaime, was waiting for them, his face set in stone. As the twins drew alongside him, his face seemed to become harder still.

"Father" Cersei beamed at him, immune to his stone silence whilst Jaime stood there, waiting. Let's see what you say on this day, father, he thought as the man opposite them stared at him pensively before turning to his daughter.

"Cersei' He returned the greeting with a small smile that looked as real as the mummers acting on a stage near the food. "I won't ask you why you're so happy". Of course Tywin knew of Robb, respected him, but that wouldn't stop him sleeping at night when he was dead.

"Small pleasures" She replied, with that pretty smile of hers, as she started the leisurely stroll to their sits atop the stands, but it had lost its magic know. Jaime had known kindness of the Lady Brienne, yearned for it, but Cersei showed none of it.

They had merely gone a few paces to stop and grab some of the sumptuous food that was on stands that half of Kings Landing could not have afforded, when the way to the food was blocked.

"Your grace, Lord Tywin" Came the smooth velvet voice of Prince Oberyn Martell. The dornish man was wearing his yellow silks, with those golden chains making their way round his bronzed neck. His lined face broken in warmth, but Jaime saw that those black "viper" eyes were untouched by his smile. His black hair, sparkling with dark brilliance, was swept back. On his arm was his paramour, the bastard born Ellaria Sand. By no means a beauty, especially with Cersei at hand, she possessed a certain exotic flair that made her attractive enough. Her robes, also of yellow silk, were open at the front, almost exposing herself, but covered by long luscious black hair.

"Prince Oberyn" Lord Tywin responded, not unkindly nodding his head in respect.

"I don't believe you have meet. This" Indicating the women next to him, "is Ellaria Sand. Ellaria, this is the Lord Hand, Tywin Lannister, and Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent. I suppose it is former Queen Regent now" He said, looking at her sharply. "Lady Cersei, Lord Hand, Ellaria Sand" He finished. It did not escape his notice that he chose to ignore Jaime, standing slightly further back than his family.

"Charmed." His father responded, nodding his head slightly, slight enough to show respect, but not enough to show fondness. Bastards were not shown warmth here, Jaime thought.

Cersei chose that moment to sigh, and Jaime knew that she would not blunt the sword that her words were to make.

"Can't say I've ever met a sand before." She said, with a smile that was far from friendly. Jaime moved out from behind them to stand next to his Lord father, who was perhaps cursing his daughter from all of the seven. Prince Oberyn did not take that comment well either, as his eyes grew sharper still. Ellaria herself, drops what was a façade, a mummers façade, but a façade to be sure.

"We are everywhere in Dorne. I have ten thousand brothers and sisters." She stated and Jaime thought that she was a suitable paramour for prince Oberyn for venom was hidden in those words.

Oberyn looked back at the Lannisters.

"Bastards are born in passion aren't they?" Oberyn asked, and here Jaime saw a sly smile creep into the corner of his mouth as he looked as himself, but the other two missed it. "We don't despise them in Dorne".

"No? How tolerant of you" Cersei spoke, her face the fierce lioness, as her eyes flickered to Ellaria.

"I expect it is a relief, Lady Cersei, giving up your regal responsibilities. Wearing the crown for so many years, must have left your neck a bit crooked." Oberyn said, and there was no hiding the anger that showed there.

"Suppose you'll never know Prince Oberyn. It's a shame your older brother couldn't attend the wedding." His sister spat, her tone light enough that the sword in the comment was not thrown into the light for all to see.

"Please give him my regards." Lord Tywin said, trying, most queerly, to diffuse the tension at hand. 'With any luck the gout will abate and he'll be able to walk again."

Prince Oberyn laughed, eating the sweet grapes, as he spoke.

"They call it the rich man's disease. I wonder why you don't have it" His face falling, yet again, into the snake, poised to strike.

His father did not blink.

"Noblemen in my part of the country don't enjoy the same lifestyle as our counterparts in the south" He spoke, still smiling his chilling smile. Oberyn stepped forward slightly, and Jaime loosed his sword slightly. Surely Oberyn is not stupid enough to start anything, he thought.

"People everywhere have their differences. In some place the highborn frown on those of low birth. In some places, the rape and murder or women and children is considered distasteful" He uttered, his face full of thunder, staring at his father, whose face had frozen in the small smile.

"How fortunate, Lady Cersei, that you daughter Marcella has been sent to live in the later sort of place". Then his face changed, the snake in his skin laughing, and cruelly at that as he moved closer still.

"Dorne may not despise Bastards. But neither will we have them a crown and call them King" He spoke, eyes flicking between himself and Cersei as he said this, so softly, that Jaime could say that they were words of wind. And with that, he walked off, silks moving as he did so, Ellaria laughing quietly as they did so.

As Jaime watched them go, his face enflamed in both rage and fear that his Lord father would know what he meant, his line of sight was interrupted by light reflecting. As he moved, to avoid the glare he saw the offending object was in the shape of a gold cloak, moving with several companions through the fringes of the festivities. He frowned. Gold cloaks were not allowed here during the tourney, to be sure, so what were these particular men doing? The man in front, in particular, was a giant of a man, face obscured by the golden chains around his helm, but his gait was familiar. Excusing himself from his family, he slowly started walking to shadow the men, who by the path they were taking, seemed to be heading for the Red keep, with two of them carrying a moving crate between them.

Sansa POV

The sun filtered through the trees on the edge of the feasting, the laughter and shouts somehow being filtered too, or so it seemed to Sansa. She sat there, unmoving, like the statues in Winterfell, with perfect likeness. She had never felt more alone than she had in recent times. Robb had been killed at her Uncle's wedding, Arya had gone missing and Bran, Rickon and her memory of Winterfell were killed by the thrice-damned Theon. All the lords and ladies in the capital had quickly chosen sides, and not in her favour, hence why she had quickly become alone, here in this Rat's nest.

She looked across the gap that had grown in the time since she had moved to the bench, watching the people who with the starting of minstrels playing their lively music had taken to dancing. She used to love dancing around the hall of Winterfell, lifting the rafters with laughter, but she flushed with anger, hating why they were dancing. She was so focused on the couples moving around each other that when a silk like voice spoke, she was startled considerably.

"The masses, dancing through their ignorance."

She stood instantly, looking to the man before her. He was clearly Dornish, with his bronzed skin, and dark swept back hair.

"My lord?" She asked, not sure where he was going with his words. He smiled thinly, hands clasped before him.

"They are happy, whilst other have died. It seemed that way after the Robert Baratheon had won, and people were celebrating, even as my sister and her children lay bloody and broken before me" He sighed, clearly still hurting, as he sat down, even as she sat next to him.

"Prince Oberyn?" She asked, knowing only one person, besides her Aunt, who was the woman that suffered from the rebellion. He smiled by way of confirmation, then turned again to look at the dancers, again. Then, after a time, where the King himself had come to join in with the festivities and her face angered more so, he leaned in towards her. Still he came, so close that she thought he would brush her lips with his own. But he moved his head, to brush his lips into her ear.

"We are getting you out of this Rats nest, my lady. Stay close to me, for when the bells ring, as they surely will, it will be our time to go". She turned sharply to stare at him, him that would risk everything, to help a small, scarred girl.

"Why?" She choked out, although scarred, touched that someone, after so long, would show kindness to someone who had helped bring his family down.

"Because the Starks are needed to bring to North to heel, for when the Dragons return, they need the wolves by their side" He breathed again, his breath tickling her cheek.

"Why would I agree to this?" she asked, steel entering her voice, but veering slightly towards the end, when he smirked, seeing straight through her. He moved closer still.

"Because your brother, Robb, is alive, being kept in the black cells."

She froze. Robb, the brother she had always idolised, in his being the one to inherit Winterfell, the one to claim Ice, the one who became King, yet never had time for his sister. But still he was family, he brother, and, as she steeled herself, would do what it took to see the Starks together.

"Well then your grace, let us dance together, the wolf and the sun." She said with a large smile creeping across her face that hid her nerves. Things were to get serious today, and she couldn't be a little girl whilst it did. Prince Oberyn laughed, and led her to meet Ellaria on the dance floor.

Jaime POV

The gold cloaks were roaming further into the Red keep, moving slower now, and hands twitching for their swords. Jaime was walking a hall lengths behind, slowly, his golden armour clinking softly as he did. They were here for something to be sure, he thought as he crept round another stone corner, catching the flick of their capes. He shook himself slightly. I am a lion of Lannister, he thought, not some nice creeping behind bigger animals. And so, he silently drew his sword, shimmering in the sunlight from the windows, as he walked faster after them.

Eventually he came to a corridor with steps descending into the bowels of the Keep, but what drew his attention was the door in front of him, with the door, slightly ajar. He approached it cautiously, sword held high, listening, ear pressed to the door. He could hear slightly scuffles, as though they knew he was there. He was about to burst through the doors, when he heard a noise behind him, and turned towards it, but it was too late. The fist that was to be at the base of his neck, connected instead with his chin, jerking his head back, knocking bodily through the doors, to land with metallic crash on the stone floor. Jaime blinked, room spinning, as he spat out blood. That was a god's punch, he thought, as he tried to push himself up to be able to see who did that, but that was rendered obsolete when a deep rumble as though the very Red Keep was talking.

"Nice to see you again, you southern scum." Jaime froze, remembering that voice, and slowly moved to sit. The man before him was part giant, thick of the shoulders and arms. Whilst he was wearing a helmet, Jaime knew there were hard brown eyes staring back the man lying before him. Jaime recognised this man, for he had brought him before the Young wolf, and he did not relish this second meeting.

"Greatjon" Jaime greeted, speaking through blood. "Forgive my ignorance, but you seem to be a long way from home" He smirked, an attempt to show arrogance, whilst inside, he felt a prickle of fear.

"Well, as much as I would like to be back in the North, we are here for our King" The Greatjon looked over Jaime's golden head, and Jaime heard the tell-tale sounds more sword being drawn behind him.

"Your King?" Jaime asked, stalling, someone should be walking near, to be sure, and they'll raise the alarm. "To my knowledge you don't have a king, but a Warden, by the name of Bolton, or am I mistaken?" He smirked at the Greatjon.

The Greatjon spat, looking downright murderous.

"Don't play games, Kingslayer. Your sister would have known moons ago, and she would have said the words around your cock in her mouth. You know his Grace is here and where. But so do we. So, to save time, and words, be a good little Lannister" Greatjon finished, as several hand grabbed Jaime by his armour. He struggled briefly before the giant before him. Jaime saw a rush or metal felt a pain, and then, blackness.

Margaery POV

Since their conversation in the early hours of dawn, the man growing more and more dear to her heart had become more and more stoic. Once he had woken once again, from a troubled dream, mumbling about snow, he had been unresponsive to her questions, responding monosyllabically. She sympathised with him, she did, but it hurt for him to not be open with her. He, of the handsome face and the kind heart, who talked about having a wife, yet at times seemed almost shy around her. Right now, as she was tapping out a childhood song with her, now chipped and dirtied nails, he was wringing his auburn hair in his hands, with what sounded like tears emanating from him, which drove her to action. Not standing it any longer, she stood, her now thoroughly ruined dress straightening to her figure once more, as she moved to sit by his side.

At her touch on his shoulder, he started but relaxed once he saw the owner of the hand, then produced a sad smile when he saw the emotional look upon her face. Leaning against her own shoulder he sighed.

"No matter what they say if me later, I ask not to think too harshly of me" He whispered. Margaery frowned, creases on her forehead, as she sat up.

"Who," She was just about to emphasise the question, insisting for an answer, when there came cry from somewhere above them. Both of them tensed, looking like a couple, frozen in stone. They silenced, listening to above, as the voiced increased in frequency and noise. Shouting was occurring above, but what worried Margaery was when metal striking metal, and screams of men.

She looked at Robb, but he seemed in the dark as much as her, his eyes fearful staring at the stone ceiling. As the noise seemed to creep to extinction, there was a cry, and the old door at the top of the stairs, and what sounded like a heavy something like a heavy thing came hurtling down the stairs. The two prisoners rushed to the door of the cell, as the noise came to the bottom of the stairs and into the light. They could see now that it was the man who had come to visit them this dawn, but even that was hard to identify. His face had been savaged, one eye scratched out, leaving a smear of clear liquid upon the slashed skin. His throat was a mess of white with red, his life's blood leaving him to quickly create a pool of dark liquid upon the greening floor.

Margaery clutched Robb's arm, going pale at the ruby coloured blood, never having seen so much blood before, or from such grievous a wound. But she turned paler still when she heard a deep growl emanating from the stairs. She moved behind Robb, shaking, as a wolf, of nightmarish proportions, of smoky grey fur, jumped down the stairs and lapped up the blood pooling near the corpse. After a moment, the wolf turned, and Margaery could see the bright yellow eyes that belonged to the monster but it was more than that. She could see intelligence there, and that scarred her more.

Margaery might have moved away, in fear of the wolf, but Robb had moved closer, fallen down onto his knees, and in a shaky voice, brimming with emotion, he uttered,

"Grey Wind?" Instantly, the male wolf's eyes changed from Margaery to Robb, for she could see that it was a he, rushed to the bars of the door. Margaery screamed, in fear that the man, after her heart, was to be killed by this beast, by the scream died in her throat. The wolf was stood, shockingly still for a creature of its size, staring at the man before him as though he had seen the sun again.

The moment between wolf and man was broken when Margaery voiced a question.

"I don't understand?" She said, looking between them, sure of information that was within her grasp. The young man looked away from the wolf to her.

"This is my companion, Grey Wind. He is the one that was with me everywhere, and saved my life a few times." He smiled a warm smile turning back as the wolf pranced back, wagging his tail, pining for his friend.

The pining noises were interrupted by a deep booming laughter, as men, as few as four descended the stairs, the first of which was veritable giant of a man, who removed his golden visor and spoke to the man with her.

"A few times, your grace? Why, he saved you from being beaten by a loyal bannerman" The man proclaimed loudly, grinning down at the man on the other side of iron, as he grinned in return.

"Greatjon, I knew you'd come" He said "Now, you had better have the keys to this hell?" He gestured at the rusting door, to which one of the men following this 'Greatjon' rushed to produce, turning them and opening the door with barely a noise. The man next to her, walked out, and Margaery noticed his mannerism had changed. He now walked with an air of determination, as thought he would not squander this chance.

The wolf, who had stayed quiet throughout the exchange, launched himself at Robb, and down they went in a warm, happy bundle, until the Wolf reluctantly climbed off him and stood at the shoulder of this mysterious man, as he stood.

"What's the plan for this daring rescue?" The boy asked, turning to the other man, who bowed slightly, before answering.

"Do not fret, Your Grace. The Viper and Spider have a plan" He answered, with a hint of distaste filling his mouth.

Margaery was at the height of curiosity. Who was this man, to be rescued by the Red Viper and Varys?

"Pardon my Lords," She said out of manners, for she did not know if they were true lords. The fact that none of the men blinked at the honour of Lord answered her question. 'But who are you?" she finished, turning once again to the enigma before her, currently standing before her, with a wolf on one shoulder, and a giant at the other. He drew himself up slightly, and with a look of resignation, he told her.

"I am Robb Stark, King of the North and the Riverlands, my lady. And we need to leave, before the Lannister's change that!"

A/N Sorry for the week between updates, was cycling around France, which sounds vastly better saying it, instead of doing it. Hope everyone likes it, reviews would be appreciated, thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Don't own anything. That honour goes to G.R.R.M.

Here is the next chapter, hope everyone likes it. Reviews still welcome.

Chapter 4: Leaving the Landing

Jaime POV

"My lord, are you okay?" This was the first that drifted through the returning consciousness of Jaime Lannister. By all of the Gods, he was surprised he was alive at all, with the look of anger that the Greatjon had. He must have softened the punch, Jaime thought, although with evidence of his splitting headache, not soft enough.

He opened his eyes, light seeping through his golden eyelashes, to see a high stoned ceiling, mould slowly creeping across the soft brown face. His eyes lowered to capture the rugged face of the Gold cloak who had roused him. He reached for his sword, half rising as he did so, expecting this man to be one of the Northmen, but as his fingers grasped air, a wave of nausea rocked him and he returned sharply to his foetal position, and clutching his golden locks as he fell.

"My lord, what happened?" The Golden man repeated, moving to settle the man on the stone floor. Jaime hit away his hand, slowly standing.

"Close down the city." He croaked, veering slightly as he moved down the corridor, in the direction of the festivities, the people unaware of the events happening. "Scour the city for the Northern bastards."

Sansa POV

"My lady, I didn't know they danced so well, in the North." Prince Oberyn called to Sansa, as she twirled around Ellaria, her fine silks fanning out as she did.

"Indeed, I am at a loss as to why there isn't a veritable army, vying for your affections." Ellaria interjected, hands gracing Sansa's back, smiling at the blush that sprang onto the younger girl's face. Sansa, although pleased enough at the compliments, but her situation reared its head in her mind.

"I thank you, but no man would ever approach me, being the daughter and sister of traitors, they couldn't flee quickly enough." She mumbled. But no, she thought, they were innocent, and she would help them right the wrongs.

Just as she was moving to the copious amounts of wine, to sate her thirst, a loud echoing gong was heard, people slowing down, the celebrations dying even as people stood still, watching, as the bell moved in unison.

This is it, Sansa thought. Even though she had time enough, to steel herself for what must come, she started to panic. Turning, she looked to Ellaria for guidance, but she had looked for Oberyn. He was sitting down in a gilded chair, but as the bells progressed, he sighed, his face set with a sad smile. But, as he stood and started forward, his face brought forth a devilish smile.

"And so it begins." He smiled at the two women before him. "Let's start our adventure, shall we?" He asked, with that roguish smile of his, offering his hands to the women. After a hesitation, at least on Sansa's part, they joined him, and together they walked to the swelling crowd of panicked people, and were swallowed up, like a whisper, vanishing.

Their walk through the capital was wracked with nerves, or so it seemed for the Sansa. Ellaria, although just as poised as before, had a watery sheen to her ski, mingled with her glances around the corners, betrayed her disquiet. Sansa too, was looking at every and all corners, as though they all concealed knowing Lannister soldiers, daggers in hand. She grabbed at the folds of her dress, walking faster. Prince Oberyn looked back at her, his ebony hair bouncing on his shoulder, smile fixed in place.

"Do not fret, Lady Stark. We are at the advantage here, for they are unprepared for this. Remember, soon you will be together with your brother again." She calmed herself at these words, remembering the family that had once been at Winterfell. To quash their fears, the streets between them and the harbour, for that was where she had guessed they were going. They heard the occasional scurrying of feet, of how many people she never saw, for the streets were empty when she got there. But she couldn't help the cold feeling of fear of overwhelming her. She moved to a run, pulling Ellaria alongside her, until she begrudgingly moved into a run alongside her, catching up to the Viper, who smirked at their womanly nerves, although Sansa saw a ghost of something beneath his mask of apathy, and that worried her more than anything.

Finally they escaped the dilapidated streets of the harbour. High salt stained walls, opened up from the small, almost mouse like entrance they emerged from, to the azure blue water beyond, lined with boats of all size and speed. As Sansa stares about in awe at the harbour, turning slightly as she did so, she noticed the glimmer of metal reflecting the sun. She paled slightly as Lannister soldiers, having seen the three of them enter, were moving to intercept them, in their crimson and rusted golden armour. It appeared Prince Oberyn noticed too, keen eyesight that he had, for he turned to Ellaria.

"My love, keep a close watch on the entrance, for we can afford no mistakes, not now." He said gravely, and after running her silken hand across his velvet cheek, she nodded, moving to stand against stone wall, peering out into the maze of a city, whilst Sansa and the Viper moved forward. Before the soldiers reached them, however, Oberyn stood in Sansa's path, shielding her from their gaze.

"Stay here, my little bird. This could get messy." He stated to her, and as he turned away, she saw the smile slide off his face, to be replaced by the cold snake like line, murder in his eyes. This is who the man really is, she thought, as he moved to stand, relaxed and poised as ever, letting the men walk to him. He had no weapons on him, other than a dagger, strapped by leather to his hip, but still the Lannister's hands did not leave the pommels of their swords.

"Gentlemen," Prince Oberyn stated, in a mummers voice, the very essence of a companion. "My paramour and her hand maiden have been overwhelmed by the festivities of our King's party. They needed some time to recover in the peace of our boat, so if you fine men wouldn't mind?" He moved, as if to step around them, but they moved, as if joined in mind, to block his path.

"Our Apologies, your Grace, but until the bells stop their song, the boats go nowhere, and no one is be near them." The soldiers lip mouth rode up his face as he said this, and Sansa could see the Dornishman's fingers twitch slightly closer to the dagger by his side.

The Prince laughed, open and long, but there was a hard, mocking edge to it. This is the knife's edge, Sansa realised, and they are waiting for the last spark to be born

"Come now, surely lions must realise that they have to kneel to some people." He said with all the warmth of a baker's fire, stepping aside, once again, and in the same breath, the lions, had moved with him. The other man answered him this time.

"The lion knows no master. Certainly not a man who sleeps with men and women both." He replied, a cruel thin smirk dancing precariously across his grubby face.

The warmth that Oberyn had showed before vanished upon the wind, as he clenched his fist, boned popping as he did so. The Lannister's were twitchy on the draw it seemed, for the popping noise caused both of them to draw steel against the prince. The second man, sword point shaking, pointed it at the Red Viper.

"Final chance, Dornishman. Walk away, or we will carry you away." He said, mustering what must have been depths of bravado, but it was a mummer's show, for even his voice shook upon completion of the threat.

The Dornishman had been a pillar of stone throughout this display, but now he moved, as quickly as an arrow. He moved as if it had been rehearsed Sansa thought, watching him run towards the men. As the men before him drew back their swords to strike him, he drew his dagger, the sun kissing the metal as it emerged. He moved under the first swing, the sword whistling as it came close to touching him, whilst he struck the man who swung, sinking the dagger into his leg, metal meeting blood and muscle. In the same movement, even as the first lion was falling, screaming all the while, he caught the second man's sword arm, drawing it back to the man's neck, wrenching his arm, and therefore sword, across his neck. As though taking its first breath of life, a gaping mouth opened in his neck, a river of blood emerging from the flesh within.

The fight seemed to have been played as though in treacle, but now time returned to Sansa. She had never seen such a display of grace and fighting skill, or the Prince's apathetic attitude towards it, as he turned back towards her, face softening slightly from the mask, devoid of life.

"Look away, my dear." He repeated softly. But even as the blood left the man's neck, it had left her face, leaving her pale and frozen to the spot. She had seen blood before, she was a woman flowered after all, and there had been instances before, but this was different. This was cold, practised murder, as though that man had been nothing but a piece of meat that had needed to be spiked upon the knife to be cooked.

The man had collapsed, eyes wide in shock, hand trying, in vain, to staunch the wound, not making a sound above the blocked gurgle that was his last breath. His companion, in contrast, screamed, in fear or pain she did not know, as he shuffled back, his now useless foot, hanging at an angle from sinew and skin along, blood showering the ground, forming a bloody trail, as he fought to put ground between himself and the man, the snake, responsible. But it did no good, as Oberyn walked up to him, casually, his heavy breathing the only sign of the previous fight. Even the flick of the knife, knocking away the clumsy attempt by the now pleading man to hurt him, was as though he had been merely catching a ball from a friend.

The snake knelt down to the crying man, knife moving to the man's throat.

"Be silent, my friend. The only good a lion can do, is die quietly." He said before plunging the knife into his neck, and standing back up, leaving the man to choke upon both the knife and his own blood. Wiping his hands on his silks, he looked back at Sansa, seemingly blissfully ignorant of the noises behind him.

"We have done all we can for this plan. Now it is in the God's hands." He said simply before whistling to Ellaria to join him, even as he started off down the pier. Ellaria ran, catching Sansa's hand, pulling her along.

"This," She said, "Was a necessity, for your brother to live as a wolf again." Although the paramour's face had a slight waxy look to it, as though she too found such acts distasteful, but her words, bore wise words. Sansa forced a smile upon her now cold lips, moving with the woman to catch up to the Prince. Where are you Robb, she thinking and prayed. Where are you?

Robb POV

"By the God's Glover, where the fuck are we? We have no time to waste scurrying about here like rats" Greatjon shouted, his face flushed slightly, as they ran from yet another dead end. The man on point, looking around the corners, scouting was another proud man of Stark, Galbart Glover, was leading them. To where though, remained a mystery to Robb, and extension Margaery. The pale beauty trailed behind, with the last of the Northmen swords around her, guarding as they sped through the Keep. Robb was running with the Greatjon, with Grey Wind keeping pace beside him,and already his own legs and lungs were screaming at him to halt. I have become weak in my cell, he thought, as they rounded yet another corner, and the pain in his chest did not diminish.

Glover turned from at the front of the party, at the foot of a set of a spiral staircase, looking back to the others of his group, as they neared him.

"The way is up my lords, I would wager my horse on this." He spoke softly, although the words carried in the sparse corridor. As the group prepared to ascend, Robb halted them.

"Very well Lord Glover, but was of my lady's and mine own disguise in the castle?" he said indicating Margaery and himself, both of which were still adorned in their dishevelled clothing. Robb looked for Glover to reveal the answer, but it was the Greatjon to part with it, with a boom of laughter.

"Why, your Grace, there is not one to speak of. Even if the whole of the city was not singing with this bloody bell," He spat, scowling up at the ceilings, "We do not have the time, or the effort to disguise the two of you or the wolf."

Robb considered this for but a moment, then laughing, reached for the spare sword, hanging from the giant's hip.

"Well then," he said, with a cheerful edge, "Best we get moving." And with that he started to climb the stone stairs. On they climbed, as the stairs climbed ever higher, back into the daylight. But that, would have to wait, for as they reached an opening in the darkness, the wolf of his heart growled, a deep hellish noise. Grey Wind's proved to be ever correct, as Robb stepped through the entrance, a group of soldiers being led by a man of shoulder length, flowing brown hair, with golden eyes that shone through a helm decorated with roses. The men behind him were in both the golden cloaks of the city watch or red and gold of Lannister. They had been moving slowly, almost afraid of finding the object of the bells, but stopped short when the man in rags emerged.

Robb stood rooted to the spot, turning to one of the weirwood trees of old. This was the moment, he realised, for him to either give up, sink back into the depths of emotion, and die; or rise, like the winter kings of old and take their mantle.

"What the fuck is causing the stop? Unless there is a room full of naked whores, I see no reason." The Greatjon booming voice ripping through the silence, surprising Robb. No, he thought, shaking his head, he would not roll over, He was a stark of Winterfell.

"We seem to have meet some people, insisting we stay for the party" Robb said smirking slightly, fist clenching around the cold steel. Motioning the men behind him to move up to see the change in events, and they did so, eyes wandering around before resting on the enemy. The man bedecked with roses stepped forward.

"You will not pass here, Young Wolf. The days of the winter king are at an end!" He snarled, sword shaking for anger. Robb was curious as to the man's rage, but as he was pondering this, the anger was swept of his face by wind eyebrows shooting up his handsome face. This lasted but for a moment, when it fell into the expression of loathing. Robb turned, and saw the object of his shock, as Lady Margaery moved into the corridor, equal shock upon her face, turning to joy widened on her face. This changed to fear as the man stepped forward. He raised his sword, face set in stone, and the move was mirrored by Robb's companions. But as he was about to fill his lungs with the cry to kill or be killed, the man winked.

He swung his sword, and silence followed. The men surrounding him moved away, apart from the man closest, who's neck was now severed completely, shooting blood, like a fountain of crimson beauty, as his helmed head landed, the corpses face still covered with a shocked expression, albeit eyes lost their spark, mouth hanging open. Wasting no time, the man set to work on the other soldiers, who were so stunned, they quickly fell to the man's expert swordsmanship.

"Move!" Robb yelled at his men, and as one, they closed the gap between them and the remaining lions. He would have left with his metal untarnished, but one of the men, shoved their friend aside, running at Robb, with a cry upon his lips and sword held high. Robb rushed to meet him. Here it is, He thought, aim raising, this is where I see if I deserve to lead the warriors once again.

The lion's sword clanged loudly as Robb blocked it, the metal protesting loudly against each other. He pushed the man away, who stumbled slightly before returning with sword swinging low. But the sword never found its target as Robb sword, instead of blocking the sword, strove through the arm holding the blade. The arm fell to the floor, sword spinning away, clattering as it did so, whilst the now cripple of a man was screeching to all of the god's above, as he waved his now stump, a fine mist of blood raining from it. Robb, raised his sword again, grim feelings aside, and silenced the man, burying the metal amongst blood and brain.

Panting heavily, he looked around. The floor was awash with blood, with bodies parts of bodies strewn about the stone. He breathed a sigh of relief as all of his men looked to have pulled through with only minor wounds, as well as Grey wind who was feasting on the bloodied corpses, but for the man of flowers who had what could be identified as a deep cut to the thigh with which was caked in blood.

"Loras!" Came a cry, and Robb turned to see Margaery rush to their mystery saviour, now unmasked. He greeted her with a fierce hug, then flinching back, cursing as he did so. Wincing as his now known sister inspected his wound, he laughed lightly

"You always said that I was more bull than flower." He said, before turning his attention to Robb, was had started to walk towards him. He stopped, but a pace away.

"My thanks, Ser," Robb started but Ser Loras waved him away before he could finish. Grey wind moved to sniff his wound, whilst Loras froze, as did the people there. But it was all for nought, as Grey wind whined and began licking the wound clean. Robb looked up from the wound to address the man.

"It appears that Grey wind is fond of you. That's fortunate, as we have a long way to go together, if you're willing?" Robb ventured. To have Margaery on their side was fortuitous indeed, but they needed more than a wayward daughter to convince the lords of the Reach to join this campaign. Loras would be the flame that would ignite the Reach lords against the Iron Throne.

Loras, looked from Robb, the man who could help, to the monstrous wolf, showing underserving kindness. Lastly he looked at his sister who would be queen, who now wore a crown of shame, presented by the Lannister's. The grim smile he gave, turning back to Robb was evidence enough of his decision.

"Not much of a choice? Never liked the lions anyway." He said smirking slightly then wincing in pain slightly. Robb offered his arm, for which Loras accepted, relief plain upon his face, as his arm went around Robb's shoulders.

"Aye, that's better." He stated, But Robb could see the rolling of eyes from his sister. He started walking with Loras, but he was unused to walking with such a weight after the length of black cell, and he stumbled slightly, moving closer to Margaery. To his dismay, she flinched slightly, but soon regained composure and smiled, but the eyes gave testament. She's afraid of me, Robb thought, giving her a tremulous smile, as he moved past her, but that had hurt him more than any sword could.

"At least the bastards can offer you some protection from eyes now." The Greatjon smirked, removing the armour off the corpses and passing it to Margaery. She looked repulsed at the idea of wearing clothing from someone who had passed on, but thought better than voicing her concerns. Shoving the armour over the last remnants of her dress, she scowled at the prospects of wearing the trousers of the armour. Showing no modesty, she folded the dress around her smallclothes, she started to pull the armour up her smooth legs, glaring at the men. Not that any, with the exception of Robb, who was struggling with his own armour, would have dared gaze upon her with Ser Loras' deadly stare.

After the shamefully long struggle donning the overly large outfit. But that still left Grey wind. Although he abhorred the thing, he willingly went back into the crate that they had picked up again only the floor below. A growl emanating from the crate signified this, which brought a smile to Robb's face, as he turned once again to his comrades.

"Let us be once again gone from this hell hole." And, after Glover and one of the other men had picked up, with no small amount of grunting, Grey Wind, they set off through the castle.

Their progress was slow, hindered by not only the map of their castle, Galbart Glover's knowledge pf the castle but also by their various difficulties. Chief among them was the residents of the Keep, who were on edge enough from the bells sonorous noise still singing about the castle, which increased their sense of danger, and their group did not blend in; Seven men, two of which were carrying a large box, from which they could hear queer noises; one, the famed Ser Loras, with what looked like a serious leg wound, being supported by another; and lastly, two seemingly guarding the last, who had a very slight build for a common soldier. Along with that, there had been no water to wash the filth from their armour, so they had dark crimson stains, as well as the tell-tale metallic odour about them. As the passed each and every person, they had received queer looks from the man, with whom that smell would have stayed from battles long past. But not one of then stopped to voice their suspicions, in part due to Loras, and his station above most.

They emerged from the halls of the Red Keep into glorious sunlight, the last vestiges of Joffrey's festivities still closing down. The tourney ground, behind the feast was filled with many a disgruntled warrior in boredom, waiting for action that would not come. At least, Robb prayed for that, as they slowly descended the steps.

"Glover, give your helm to Loras, he is too well known by the people here." Robb said in a carrying whisper, for the two man in front were fair few steps deeper into the wasps nest. Indeed, few enough women and men were straining to see if it was truly the Knight of flowers, descending to join them. Glover rushed back, removing his helmet, as he ran. Robb shouldered more of the knight's weight so that he would be able to help secure his own helm, and safety.

They were in the midst of the dance floor, surrounded by Lions, and other creatures of equal hatred, when there was a call from the Keep. Robb turned back, his thighs burning, and his heart Sank to somewhere in his stomach.

Jaime, fucking, Lannister, bloodied and bruised, was storming down the steps, head swinging wildly in search of prey, as if he was the predator. Robb turned, dragging the weight of Loras with him, but the strain of the speed of travel caused Ser Loras to cry out in anguish.

"Be still." Robb hissed at the man, but turning to catch fleeting glimpse, showed that the damage had been done. Jaime's head turned, eyes narrowing even as he took in the man towering above the rest in their group. Robb turned cursing the Greatjon for his size, for which there was no disguise made. The Kingslayer's mouth opened, but he seemed to stay his cry and his hand faltered in its raising, if for but a moment before he found his tongue.

"Seize the traitors in false clothing!" Jaime roared, fingers pointed fiercely, as though each of his fingers could strike the group of supposed traitors.

"Greatjon! Take Loras!" Robb roared, drawing steel as men in arms came running from the tourney ground, with a great roar of voices, even as a flood of red came pouring from the Door that the Kingslayer stood.

Even as Greatjon rushed back, his monstrous greatsword flashing as it opened a man from hip to shoulder, grabbed Loras, throwing him over his shoulder as easily as he would a cloak, Robb rushed back to Margaery.

"Margaery, run!" He shouted, grabbing her arm, seeing a fearful face through her visor, and hoping she was able to, as he wheeled around. They would not let her live, not now. He pulled her through the crowd, forcing people to scatter from their way, defending her all the while from the swords. The monsters had reached the echoed remains of the festivities and where running to catch up. But for now, fortune had favoured them, for they were full of food and wine, and many stopped to divulge the contents of their stomach. They made their way, running all the while, into the entrance of the maze like streets of the capital. Here, there was still the remnants of normality within the city, with carts of food, the odd straggler roaming the cobbled pathways, for most of the people seemed to have taken to their senses and fled for safety, away from the unknown.

Jumping over a cart of fruit, he chanced a look back, and saw the last of their team, a weary veteran, perhaps of all of the wars his father had fought in, slowing down. Mimicking him, pulling a tired Margaery beside him, he turned to the man.

"What are you doing?!" He shouted. Why was this man not continuing to flee for his life? The man, of ashen grey beard, of strong limbs and laugh lines looked back.

"I am tired, my king. I think I'll stay here, give the bards something to remember me by." He said, giving a fierce smile. Robb should have known, should have guessed. No Northman, apart from the bastards of Bolton, would ever abandon honour. But that did not mean he would leave one of his kin to die here. He was about to say something, when the army of men in metal rounded the corner, bearing down upon their lone comrade. Both Robb and Margaery set off running again, following the three men beckoning for them. Just before he rounded the Corner, Robb chanced a look back. He saw the man, his sworn man, surrounded in a sea of red and gold.

It was around a few more street corners that they reached the Harbour, a stone prison in itself, except for the side of the square facing him, which led away into the brilliance of the open sea and sky. But that sky was tinged with Blackened fog. The Greatjon laughed deeply.

"That Viper is one crafty bastard." He laughed, before returning to the situation, looking back to the others.

"The end of the last pier is the boat that will save us. Let us be rid of this place." The last of his words, were drowned in noise, a sound of the enemy bearing down, once again. With a short bark of "Run" they started through the opaque fog. Following the man in front, Robb could see snatches of boats of all descriptions, but all in midst of blazing infernos.

Eventually, after clearing the choking smog, they reached the end, where a streamlined boat of a dusky yellow awaited them. As they drew nearer they could see a man, pacing across the gleaming bow of the boat. He stopped, noticing them running for the boat, drawing a knife, running out to meet them. Seeing them at a closer distance, he stopped, pitch black hair flapping in the wind.

"Problems?" He asked, his voice soft and musical, at odds with the knife in his clenched fist.

"Only if we are stopped now." Replied Glover, moving forward. "Let us get moving." He called, and everyone moved to board the boat. As Robb looked back however, he could see people emerging from the cloud of burning wood.

"We have to buy some time." Robb said, to the people around him, but he seemed to have had that thought later than other. For, he saw that Galbart Glover was walking back across the gangplank, sword in hand.

"Galbart, what are you doing?" you can't do it alone!" Robb shouted, moving to come across and help him.

The man, lord of Moat Cailin, turned back, resigned smile in place. "I don't need to, for as you said, your Grace, I just need to slow the buggers down, for you to leave."

Robb opened his mouth to say something, of which he did not know, when he was stopped by an arm on his shoulder.

"Let him do right by him, so we can do right by us. He believes in the King in the North. Prove that belief if put to good use. We will avenge him when the time is right" Looking around, he saw the man of bronzed skin, darker hair, but a pensive look upon his face. Robb looked at him for a second, looking back at the lone wolf, against the rats of this city.

Glover POV

As he looked back at the Boat trying to free itself of the vestiges of rope holding it to the wooden gangplank, swore he would not make the same mistake again. Galbart himself had been absent from the Red Wedding, acting on his king's orders, but as all of the lords, who were not in the pocket of Bolton, he could not save the man they swore to. But now, he had regained his fallen honour. The smile he wore, had no place for his enemies, as they moved out of the smoke. Raising his sword, he walked slowly, calmly accepting his fate. But that did not mean that he would kneel easily. He parried the first sword, sparks flying from the grating metal and drove past him, spinning and striking him from behind.

He raised his fist to punch the next opponent, but before he could the point of his knife pierced his side, burrowing deep into his stomach. Howling with pain, he punched the man in his unprotected face. Whether killed or sleeping was unknown to him, for the man crumpled, and did not get up again. Crying out in pain as he removed the dagger, he fought on. He was a demon possessed with fighting rage, as he fought tooth and nail to stall his enemies, to protect his king.

In his fighting delirium, he was focused only on the man in front of him, but was brought back to clarity by a man's voice shouting,

"Stop!" The men attacking him ceased their efforts, allowing Galbart a moment of respite. But with that respite came fear, as the army moved, surrounding him, leaving him at their mercy. One side of the circle of swords started to part however, and a man walked through, of golden armour and golden hair, gleaming valryian steel sword in hand.

"Lower your sword Glover, and we will not hurt you." Jaime said, voice and face even. "Much." He added, a cruel smirk breaking that. Galbart spat on the floor at Jaime's feet. Sighing, he moved forward sword rising. They matched the few sword strokes at the start, but Galbart was under no illusions. He could not compete with the likes of the golden lion. As if to illustrate his mental pathway, Jaime parried one of Glover's thrusts, and span, opening up his right thigh.

Falling to one knee, he howled in pain, even as blood welled to the surface. He roared rising upon his ruined leg, and charged at the golden lion before him. But Jaime moved around him easily, and moved his sword, almost tenderly across Galbart's trailing ankle. Screaming once again, he fell in a tumble of clattering metal, but more so, shameful defeat.

Jaime POV

Panting slightly, he moved around the face his opponent, who was kneeling on the floor, the isle in the middle of a lake of blood, still wincing from the pain of the wounds he himself had inflicted.

"One more time. Where are they going?" he asked, not unkindly. This man was a brave, no one could deny that.

The man, wheezing, blood flooding his lungs, spoke.

"Fuck you, Kingslayer. You broke oaths to Lady Stark. The North remembers." Jaime remained poised, but inside he was reeling, the one chink in his otherwise perfect armour. Moving forward he thrust the sword into the man's chest, emerging from his back, splattering the people behind with blood. Galbart Glover, loyal bannerman to Robb Stark, and before that Eddard Stark, fell with note of finality, hitting the wooden floor with a muffled thud.

Wiping his sword on the corpse's cloak, he turned to the crowd before him.

"Scavenge what you can of the wreckages, and move the bodies somewhere else." He spat, his temper flaring.

Looking one last time at the man lying before him, Jaime scowled, standing back up looking at the horizon, where a boat could be made out. He stood there for a long while, smoke still rising behind him from the ruins of the royal fleet, before turning around, and, with a swish of white, walking away. Father would hear of this, he thought, and they will find how truly sharp our claws are.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 acceptance of mud

Daenerys' POV

The sun was filtering the open doors at the top of the old stone pyramid, but that was not the cause of the young dragon to jolt awake. Breathing heavily, she sat up, holding the sheets against her person, as she recalled the events of the dream that troubled her so. She was sitting in her steaming bath, thinking thoughts too trivial to remember, when she noticed a man, barely a man face, but his eyes spoke of trials enough for a man. Somehow, even though she could not recall meeting this man, she felt unspoken volumes of lust and affection for him, compelling her to step from the bath, revealing herself to him. As his eyes focused on her naked beauty, to which she giggled lightly feeling proud that she had this effect on him she herself looked from the black robes that he wore even in the scorching heat to his face. The hardness of his eyes, which had once again focused on her face, showed warmth, showing the brilliance of melting ice. She slowly walked towards him, moving her hips, teasing him, before she pressed her chest into the black coat, and the muscle she felt beyond that. Then she heard a song, a song that she felt she remembered, and commented to the man before her. He replied in a deep, masculine voice,

"Our song?" And it was this that woke her, before she heard her own response. She moved, still draped in her silks, to the balcony, looking at the waking city below her. Who was this man, to stir such a response in her? Judging from the black coat that he wore, he would belong to the seven kingdoms. She sighed again, but it was to be the end of her pondering for her trusted knight, the aged Ser Barristan Selmy, moved into her chambers, eyes pointed to the ceiling.

"Your Grace, there are deserters from the Yunkish sellsword companies." He stated, his rich, gravely tone laced with worry. He had started as just her single Queensguard, but had eventually cared for her like her own grandfather, which was appropriate thinking of the name Daario had chosen for him.

"Deserters?" She asked, wondering what why they had chosen to come to Meereen. We always need more soldiers, she thought, her mind going back to her desperate situation surrounding her, and her city. "Where are they now?"

"Waiting at your leisure, in the throne room." He replied. Sighing, she called for Missandei to help her dress.

Moving into the throne room and onto the dais, she studied the men before her. There were a small group of them, Dany looked down at the men below her.

"Welcome," She said, her voice carrying, down to the sellswords below. "We are in need of warriors, such as yourselves." As each of the men, sore and weary from travels, made the movement forward to swear fealty, she noticed several of the men before her acting most queerly. Foremost, a young man who looked to be travelling as part of a trinity, for two other men seemed to be at his sides, was staring at her quite intently, who his muddy brown eyes, dark hair, and bronzed skin. But as she looked towards the other men, she noticed another who stared at her. A man and his son, both who azure blue hair falling like waterfalls to their shoulders, the older of the two looking like the father, having a stone lined face and severe eyes, but it was the son that drew her attention. Like the young man before him, this one stared just as deeply at her. He was of breath taking handsomeness, his pale skin glittering slightly with his blue eyes that seemed to hold a deeper colour.

The men before him, having been addressed, moved to one side, and he moved forward to address Dany.

"My queen, my friends have travelled far to be in your presence." He began, glancing back at his two companions, who nodded, as if fuelling his confidence. He turned back to Daenerys.

"Your grace, we have travelled from Westeros to be here. My name is Quentyn Martell, son of Doran Martell, and we have sought you out to take back the iron throne." This statement was met by complete silence, including Daenerys. Dorne has not forgotten her, Dany thought. As she looked around at the other warriors, many of whom were silenced by his claim, the blue haired supposed Bravosi father had son, who were turning from each other to the prince with barely concealed glee.

"As much as I would like to go to Westeros now, I have promised myself to Meereen." She said. The prince moved forward a step, her unsullied soldiers twitching as he did so.

"With respect your grace, if you do not come with me, then you should not look to Dorne for help. Nor others, with whom are clasped in arms with Dorne." This is one foolish boy, she thought, but felt panic tart to creep in. If Dorne did not help, then if would be her against all of Westeros. Sighing, she stood, and Ser Barristan moved forward to be in step with her.

"Come, prince, walk with me." She ventured, looking at the young man, who with his men at arms, nodded, and had started forward when the Bravosi man stepped forward.

"Your grace, speaking with full authority of the Golden Company, we would like to join you, as you could benefit from our help." Dany shrugged, gesturing with her hand, and the two men joined the Dornishmen, walking to her chambers. As she entered however, she caught a strange look from Ser Barristan, as he examined the older Bravosi. Putting it out of her mind, she seated herself in a wicker seat, he gestured for the other people to do the same. First, she looked for the Bravosi, who had chosen to remain standing.

"So, since I know what the Prince Quentyn is here for, what is your business? For that matter, might I ask your name?" she asked, breaking the strenuous silence. The man, of deep leather skin and crow's feet around his eyes that shortened as he opened his mouth, with no small amount of tiredness, as though he had waited his whole life for this meet.

"Your grace, my name is Griff, but in the land of Westeros I was known as Jon Connington, friend of Rheagar Targaryen. I have travelled here, and for that matter stayed alive in secret, with the help of the Spider, Varys, for he wants the dragon to rule again. You are not the last dragon, for behind me sits Aegon Targaryen, son of Rheagar, smuggled out of the Red Keep and raised by me." Dany could not move for shock after his song of wonder had finished, but it was Ser Barristan who stepped forward, hand on sword.

"You speak lies, Ser, for I knew the man Jon, he of his red mane and his fierce friendship," He started, but he was interrupted by the Supposed Aegon, who stood from his chair.

"Ser Barristan, you protected by father, even unto his dying day, smote by Robert Baratheon, at the Ruby Ford. Griff, or known to all now as Jon, told me of your and Rheagar's descents into the city, and his singing there. Any more knowledge I could impart?" He smiled at them, and Dany saw that his eyes changed colour in the light. His hair, she realised, it started a mummery of his eyes, for the true colour burned brightly in darkest ebony. Dany herself moved to stand as well.

"This proves that this man, Jon Connington is who he says, but not who you are." She stated firmly, looking at the young man. "But if you are who this man vouches you as, then I would give up my claim for you, as long as we have a common aim, with the Lannister's burned from this world." With that, she noted, Ser Barristan had a flicker of disbelief upon his face as the song she sung, which quickly vanished. For if he was the son of Aegon, then he would have the better claim, and although Targaryen's married amongst themselves, the man in the black cloak from her dream stopped the words from leaving her mouth.

Looking back at the Dornishmen, who were put off by this development of the proceedings. She thought long and hard about a solution to this that did not entail her rebirth, but could not think of any other way. Turning back to the blue haired pretenders, she spoke, with a finality to her high flute like voice.

"Since, like me, you say he is a Targaryen, then like me he will burn. If he survives fire, then he will be beyond a doubt who you say he is." Turning to the Prince, "And if this happens, I do believe you have a sister, Arianne? If she marries him, then that will prove it to the rest of Westeros. Now," she finished with a sinister smirk, "Who is ready to meet my children?"

Robb's POV

As he turned from the wreckage, gripping Grey Wind's fur, in sadness or anger he did not know at the loss of one of his bannerman, he heard someone calling his name. Turning around, he gasped in shock, whilst the Greatjon laughed at his reaction. For there before him, as clear as when she left for the Capital all those long years ago, was his sister, Sansa. She has grown since, becoming a woman in full bloom. Her high cheekbones, thick auburn hair and vivid blue eyes, marking her as her mother's daughter, now full of tears, rushed to Robb even as he rushed to her. They collided in a moment if pure joy to both of them, clutching each other as though they were to stay like this for a thousand years.

"Robb." Sansa sobbed, tears falling to the wooden deck beneath them.

"I know," Robb said, voice breaking, though muffled against her neck. He stroked her thick locks, transported to their farewell as Winterfell, of similar moments to this. Over her shoulder, Robb glimpsed Loras embracing his own sister, with whom their eyes locked. Robb wished for them to be as close as they had been, and hoped he hadn't ruined her trust by not revealing who he was. There was be time enough later, he thought, clutching his sister to him.

Since then, the sibling wolves had not parted for even minutes. As they were lacking in rooms aboard the small boat, the now named Prince Oberyn had suggested sharing a room, for which they were grateful. They spent every moment talking, or if no words were found, they simply breathed in the other's company. Sansa loved lying on Grey wind, missing Lady he supposed, but the wolf affected by heat, raised no objections.

In the brief moments when Robb in between time of Sansa, Robb tried to attract Margaery's Attention, to mend the Bridge between them, but she was adept in evading his advances. This hurt Robb, even at this happiest of times, but as he thought before there would be time enough in Dorne.

Robb woke on the turn of the second week to catcalls and cheering. Squinting, as he sat up, moving Sansa's lightly snoring body away with a tender hand. In past times, or any other circumstance, they would not share a bed, but they did for lack of options, and to comfort Sansa, who had nightmares. Quietly, dressing himself in clothes that Prince Oberyn had seen fit to give him, he moved towards their cabin door. Moving into the blistering southern sun, Yawning as he did so, He saw, a few leagues inland, what looked like a palace of marble, with tall luscious trees, that were visible even from their distance. As he was pulling on his boots, still marvelling at the fantastical structure they beheld, he saw Prince Oberyn, standing alone at the head of the boat, stood so still he looked to be the immovable figurehead of their boat.

"Prince Oberyn." Robb greeted, voice gruff in the morning air, as he moved to stand beside the Viper. Oberyn turned to look, smiling as he saw Robb.

"Young Wolf." He returned the greeting with a smile, as warm as the morning air. The two men were forming a fast friendship, though mutual interest, similar personalities, but as Robb reasoned, a fierce hatred of the Lannister's would not hurt either.

"Forgive me, Oberyn, but I thought we were bound for Sunspear, to plan our campaign from there." Robb asked, looking at the background. For although the palace beyond was impressive to say the least, it was evidently not the capital. Oberyn laughed, turning back to the building laid out before them.

"My brother, Doran, is cursed by gout, and finds it difficult to travel. He resides in the Water Gardens now, but that it no restriction. All of the houses loyal to us will have travelled here in secret, to not rouse the lion from his foolish slumber. My brother ,who does not move a foot without thinking it through, but in this place, amidst water and children frolicking about, his mind is at its sharpest. I am the spear that fells the enemy, but my brother is the mind that directs the spear." Oberyn finished, his love for his brother evident in his praise.

The Boat moved against with the sand with a slow scrape of the hull of the boat, as if even the boat sensed it was the destination of the group aboard it.

"About fucking time!" shouted the Greatjon, much laughter following this, as his giant stature amongst the small cabins was the cause of many a curse on board, as he moved onto the beach. Smiling at his bannerman's antics, Robb followed him onto the soft yellow sand, Sansa moving in tandem, in muted awe. The beach wrapped around the small cove, surrounded by sparse like tall grass. Robb turned from the surroundings to see Ellaria, laughing at a jape made by Oberyn, who was holding her arm, descended from the boat.

"Well then, Robb, let us depart here to my brother's council." Oberyn stated, warily watching the surroundings, as though any one of them could produce a spy from its midst. Robb nodded, before turning back and whistling to the boat. From the cabin, Grey wind, slowly emerged. The wolf was as green to water as he was to the beach. Upon getting his paws on sand, Grey wind couldn't' resist his curiosity. Nor, indeed could he stop the pup within him, for after a time sniffing it, he broke into play, rolling around both the wolves in human clothes, and the beach. Robb smiled, for it seemed a whole different life since Grey wind had been able to play like this. But in the back of his mind, he knew that the wolf will have to turn back into the predator before this war was won.

Smiling, he caught the eye of Margaery as she and Loras themselves made their way to the beach. She gifted him with a smile of her own, but there was a guard upon her eyes. Robb turned from her, to Sansa, forcing a smile upon his face, and following the Dornish prince and paramour up the path.

The tremulous silence, broken occasionally by the smattering of whispered words, was torn apart by the cries and shouts of children. They had arrived at the Water Gardens. The whole palace was brought about by pale pink marble pathways, leading the squealing children running between the dusty red pillars of the building and the tropical trees, dropping with exotic fruits.

As they walked, led by the Prince Oberyn whom was looking around the palace with a nostalgic smile, with Sansa almost jumping around with ecstasy at the beauty surrounding them, the children starting grouping, staring. Robb wondered at what they were looking, until he saw Grey Wind drawn towards them. He looked back at Robb, as if seeking permission.

"Go on," Robb spoke, laughing lightly, as Grey wind, turning to trot towards the children who looked up at this monstrous creature with something akin to fear, which welled up as evident by them running about, seemingly turning it into a game, as the wolf moved to chase them. Robb smiled at this. If only I could leave my fears aside and play with him, He thought, moving again to follow Oberyn who was approaching a stairwell, winding around a whole wall. At the head of the stairs, stood a set of double doors, with a sun blazing across the middle of them, with a glittering spear piercing and re-emerging from the sun, guarded on either side by soldiers armed with spears.

"So, King of the North," Oberyn turned back to him, Ellaria looking at him queerly, "Are you ready to meet the ruling prince of Dorne?" Robb looked at Margaery who gave him a searching look, then looking down to his little sister. She returned his gaze, almost begging for him to say yes. Robb looked back at the Red Viper, and nodded. Turning in turn, he then nodded to the guards, who pushed the doors open, slowly due to their obvious weight.

"My lords and Grace, presenting the King in the North, Robb Stark, with Princess of the North Sansa Stark, Lord Greatjon Umber of the Last Hearth, Loras Tyrell formerly of the Kingsguard, the Lady Margaery Tyrell, and lastly the Prince Oberyn Martell with his paramour Ellaria Sand."

The guard might have been singing his song of proclamation, but Robb, and the others with the exception of Oberyn and Ellaria, both of whom chuckled lightly at their reaction, for the room itself was breath-taking. A large dome take the place of the ceiling, showing a beautiful depiction of the sigil of the Martell's with the sun and spear being the literal sun, looking down upon the Lords present in the room. The room was circular, everyone was standing for there were no chairs present, apart from one at the end of the room, and that chair was occupied, but they would have remained standing as they were all scares eyes as the sight of Grey wind, who moved like a predator, casually observing his prey.

The ruling prince of Dorne, Doran Martell, was a stranger to emotion, for he showed none as they made their way into the room. His aged face, surrounded by hair steadily losing its blacken colour, was atop a skeletal thin body, with his hand tapping against the table his chair was pulled against, which seemed, as Robb drew near it, to be a map of Westeros.

"Prince Doran." Robb greeted, bowing as he did. Even though the man before him was only a prince, he had been a prince all his life, not raised up by his men. Prince Doran nodded his head in return, a small movement.

"King Robb." It was more statement than anything more. The prince was the hardest men to read, but he had his loves. His eyes softened as Oberyn walked up to him, smile, small but genuine, being born on his skin.

"Brother." Oberyn moved to grasp his brother's hand, the recipient grimacing as he did, although it looked like it was a pain worth bearing.

"Brother" Doran responded, before turning, not only to face Robb, but back to the face of stone. The time that he was scrutinising Robb seemed to stretch for hours, but eventually he moved to speak.

"The king of the North is here, by our doing. My brother, and by extension Dorne, have risked all by giving you freedom, so what can you give us in return?" Robb opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when he realised that the prince would not be convinced by a quick answer. So he thought, deeply about what the North could offer the southern Prince. He looked back at Doran and answered.

"Friendship," Robb started, "the North will become you allies. The North, my father, may have had a hand in the dornish butchery in the past, but we will help restore it for the future. We need a united front against the crown and lion army, so we need to be as one, either through marriage or arms, but we need a brotherhood of wolf, sun, trout and," indicating Loras and Margaery, "the rose if they are as willing as we are."

There was a storm of muttering from the surrounding Lords and Ladies, but the storm died upon reaching Doran, whose face did not even register the words that had reached his own ears. He stared at Robb long and hard, before moving those piercing eyes to Oberyn. He was stood off to the side, leaning into Ellaria as she whispered sweet words for him, but his eyes found his brothers. No words passed their lips, but they said more than anyone could have known. Finally, Doran broke eye contact, moving eyes back to Robb.

"Let it be known that the wolf and sun be brothers now." He said, a rare smile flowering upon his lips. The words he spoke may have been light, but a heavy weight lifted from Robb, that he did not know he was carrying, breathing a sigh of relief as around them, a crowd of applause burst from around them.

"Now," Doran spoke, and he brought an end to the happiness, bringing them back to the present with his whispered words. "How do we plan to move forwards from this?" But before Robb could think of a suitable plan to start this planning for war, they were interrupted by a cry from outside.

"Who the fuck are you, and why in seven hells are you here?"

Jon POV

Jon couldn't sleep. He tried countless times, countless nights. But every time his eyes were covered by supposed safety of his eyelids, he saw their faces. He saw Alliser Thorne, he saw Bowen Marsh, and he saw Othell Yarwyck. But most of all he saw Olly, the boy he himself had taken in, as he pushed the final knife into his chest. And every night he woke up cold with sweat, chest heaving. Only the presence of the steadily silent Ghost calmed him, as he waited out the silent hours before dawn.

The journey from White Harbor had been anything but calm. Storms aplenty had ripped apart the tranquillity. The only part where the world had been not shaken by waves was the start. Saying goodbye to Davos had been sad, for the reason of simple reason of being fond of him, but the outcome of seeing him depart was that he'd return, Rickon and Shaggydog and Osha in tow.

That had been a moon ago, and since then he had not seen land, nor anything but sea and ship. He soon found that he had no love for boats, and found his food quickly leaving him, while Ghost looked on, as silent as the clinging mist that surrounded them.

After what seemed like year, but what must only have been two moons worth of days, the cry of "Land, ahoy" reached Jon's ears and he whistled for Ghost to join him, as he hurriedly vacated his cabin. Ghost, panting due to the heat so unlike the North, joined on the prow of the boat, as they pulled up to a supposed beach, but the beach was unlike any concealed in coves up in the North.

"Captain," Jon called to the Dornishman standing further along the boat. The man, whose face was covered with a beard streaked with silver, turned at his voice, doffing his hat at Jon's appearance next to him.

"Where are we to land this boat?" Jon asked the captain. He may have been the lord commander, it seemed a lifetime ago for him, but his knowledge was lacking in Dorne. The captain looked at him fleetingly, before turning back to the waters, and the land beyond.

"Whilst Sunspear would be the common answer, the wiser amongst them, including me would place money on the Water Garden's. So that is where this boat is going." The captain finished pointing at the large building, moving slowly from the horizon of their vision.

Jon stood there, even as the Captain moved off shouting orders to the sailors aboard, thinking. He knew very little of Dornish people, save for the stories that were bandied around Winterfell, which left him at a disadvantage. More so, was that they did not know of his soon to be presence on Dornish soil, or so Varys would have him believe. He had been mute as to explain further under Jon's questions, only to say that he would find Robb and more should he travel to Dorne.

Jon was moved from his reveries by the slight recoil of the boat as it touched the bottom of the sand, moving into shallower waters. Ghost moved to nose Jon's hand, and when Jon looked down, stared back with soulful red eyes. Looking around, he saw another boat, larger than their own, again docked at the same rickety piece of wood that their own small boat was moored at. Robb was here, he thought, thinking of the state that Robb would have been in, traveling here from King's Landing.

"It's okay Ghost." Jon reassured him, running his hand through the snow white fur. They moved to the side of the boat, as the sailors secured the boat, tying it to the small jetty that looked like it was reaching the end of its life. As Jon stepped off the boat, Ghost trotting before him, he heard a cry emanating from on the boat. Turning back, he saw the captain moving up behind him.

"Snow," he called moving up behind him, grasping his shoulder. "Follow the path to the Water Gardens. If your brother is there as we have been told, then he would have gone that way." Jon nodded his thanks, grasping his forearm, and moving of down the beach, Ghost running off in his wake. Struggling to walk in the deep untouched sand, he moved to try and walk in the footsteps of the people who had already walked this path before. There were several prints, their gaits ranging from the tallest with long strides between steps, to the smallest with delicate dainty footsteps.

The sand gradually developed into rolling dunes, tiring the recovering Jon. It would have been easy to lose yourself in the endless dunes, if it weren't for the blatant path of scattered sand, the tell-tale signs of the previous occupants of the sand. Looking back, he sees to his dismay, the boat was winking at him, reflecting the sunbeams as it turned around. Well, he thought turning back, I am here now whether I like it or not, to play my part.

Approaching the Water Garden's, he noticed that there was a lacking in Guards, the glint of steel lacking from his eyesight as he and Ghost walked to the start of the pink marble pathways. The smell of lemon filtering through the air as he crept along the pink, unused to such colours, before looking back as ghost started growling, a low rumble deep within his chest.

"Easy boy" Jon murmured, moving forward again. He walked along pathway after pathway, still no sword or spear stopping his advance, before the pathways opened out. The ceiling opening to reveal the noonday sun, pillar supporting the picturesque image, ornate stairs at the other end of the courtyard, spiralling up into the unknown.

But something soured this image, as a sliver of something as yet unknown ran down Jon's spine. He tensed, knowing something was going to happen. This might have travelled along the bond he shared with the partner of his mind, for Ghost was growling, hackles raised, snow like fur raising with his bubbling emotions. Jon started forwards, but stopped, having taken no more than a couple of steps, before a woman moved out from one of the pillars, spear in hand.

She was a woman, bloomed in full, looking big boned, long muscular legs covered with scale plated armour, with tangled, rat-brown hair. Her face, whilst fair, was confident to the point of arrogance.

"My, Dorne is unused to seeing crows." She stated, and even in this small song of words, Jon could hear anger.

Jon, having been surprised at the appearance of a human in the midst of such emptiness, never the less flinched slightly when behind the opposite column to the first woman rose another. This one, although clearly kin to the first as they shared the same eyes, or the same emotions in the eyes, but the similarities stopped there. This woman, seemingly younger than her sister, had all the beauty that her sister lacked. Her skin was magical to Jon, for it seemed to change colour depending on view, moving from milk white to olive. Whilst the first had been muscular, this one was as thin as a willow, straight as the arrow black hair, braided down one shoulder, complimenting her high cheekbones, dark eyes, and full red lips.

"The crow is far from home, and none of his flock to help." She said, her voice, adding a mocking edge, but more than that, fear to Jon.

"I am here to see my brother, kindly stand aside." He said, his voice quivering from the dry walk, but the girls smirked, mistaking this for fear.

"If you are here to see your brother, then why would you and your wolf walk amongst the garden's uninvited, Crow, and threaten the snakes of the sand?" asked the first woman, tapping the butt of her spear against the marble, producing a muffled thump, striking a rhythm with the frequency of the spear strikes.

Jon swallowed, the lump in his throat making that difficult.

"We were forced here under certain circumstances. I was told my brother would be here." He forced, hand moving for the handle of his sword. In a fight against the two of this women, for the second recovered several small knives from her person, twirling them deftly in her hands, he would not stand long with bare hands.

But his hand moved no further, for a metal object, cold to the touch, found purchase against the soft skin of his neck. Ghost was growling, loud enough and of enough ferocity to chill blood, but all Jon heard and felt was the person behind him breathing, along with a smooth, delicate arm.

"Careful now, Crow." Came a voice of childlike lightness, at odds with the situation at hand. "The barb of this snake had enough poison to kill you within minutes, so call your wolf to heel." She said in her tinkling voice. Jon swallowed again, the metal moving along the wave in his throat, as he raised his hand slightly.

"Ghost, calm." He spoke, and Ghost calmed instantly, although his eyes, and whines, spoke of worry enough for both of them.

"Good boy." The girl behind him spoke, and Jon stumbled forward, pushed by arm. He fell to the epicentre of the dangerous 'snakes', Ghost running to his side, as he looked behind him, as the now revealed woman.

The woman in question was of breath taking beauty, both of a woman in full bloom and of childlike innocence. Wrapped in armour, like her now known sisters, she had hair of purest gold, falling around her face like molten sunshine. Her eyes, of deep blue pools, were still of innocence, but that was a mummery as the playful smirk upon her delightful lips spoke volumes of, underneath a smattering of freckles. In her outstretched childish hand, there was a small tube of metal, tapered to a point, sparkling slightly as it appeared covered in a fine liquid.

Jon gasped. Her beauty, whilst foreign for a man of the wall, was familiar to him, as though from a dream.

"It's you" He stuttered, shocked that his dreams had held meaning. The woman moved her dark streaks of eyebrows down in confusion, and was about to voice this, when a guard moved behind her, as though just walking his route and came across their group. He stopped, holding his sword out, pointing at them.

"Who the fuck are you?" he directed at Jon, a quiet mess upon the ground, then looked at the woman surrounding him. "And what in seven hells are you doing here?"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 the bastard of Snow and sand

Soldiers, dressed firmly in sandy colours, rushed them to quickly form a wall of spear points.

"Stand aside, people." The first sister demanded of the men, with levelled weapons. "We are the children of Oberyn Martell, so stand down!"

Children of the Red Viper, Jon thought, well they are using their fangs now. She sounded so sure of herself that they would move, and be lucky of leaving with their lives, but not today.

"Prince Oberyn is not the one in command here" One of the soldiers said, as he moved forward, the spear point only enforcing this. Slowly, as Jon rose to his feet, Ghost growling by his side, the four of them were forced to walk towards the stairs, the women cursing all the while, but Jon was not hearing this. His head was in turmoil. Why had the girl, of such exotic beauty appeared in his dreams, chosen to appear now? What did this mean? He needed Melisandre, for guidance even if it was delivered via vague messages, but that was an option no longer. Without her king, Stannis, as she said in words of mourning, she had no reason to stay in Westeros. So, as Jon was sailing for Dorne, and Ser Davos was sailing for Skagos, she was sailing east, returning to Asshai.

Broken from his reverie, by a nudge from Ghost, he looked as they had reached the pinnacle of the stairs, he was positioned behind the three sisters. Whilst one of the guards moved through the doors, closing them behind him quickly, the woman of gold and blue glanced back at him. In those eyes he could see hostility, but it was more than that, he could see curiosity about him. Jon felt a small amount of happiness at that, as the guard returned to them, the door staying ajar.

"The prince will see you now." The guard said, and as one, the four people moved into the room. The first thing Jon saw when entering the room, was the vast spectrum of colours adorned on the clothes that hung around the lords and ladies of Dorne, was far more exotic than the southern ladies who had travelled with Queen Selyse. The amount of jewellery would have made the whole of kings Landing scream in envious rage. But Jon's eyes were drawn elsewhere as they walked to the middle of the room. As they were forced to a stop before the stone table topped with a map of Westeros, there came a bark from the further reaches of the room. Looking about, Jon saw a monstrous direwolf, of such large proportions that it could not be a wolf, of dark grey fur, run to first him, sniffed, then ran to Ghost, bowling him over, and seemingly playing with him. Years had passed since Jon had last set eyes on another direwolf, but the littermates of Ghost were hard to forget.

"Grey Wind." Jon breathed, looking at the playing duo. The wolf, responded with a look, yellow eyes revealing nothing, looking past him, before returning to his frivolous behaviour.

"Jon?" Jon heard this, follower the eyes, and there, standing beside what looked like the ruling Prince of Dorne, was his brother, Robb. He had changed since Robb had seen him last, looking gaunter and more harried than last they saw. This was not the child, playing at being a lord, this was the King of the North, and yet it was still his brother.

"Told you I suit black." Jon japed to Robb smiling as Robb smiled revealing the boy he knew, moving forward, only to be stopped by the spears and guards.

"Doran, this is my brother, Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. Stand your men down." Robb demanded, Jon wincing slightly at that, looking at the man sitting in the wooden throne, who nodded, and the guards moved aside. Both men stood there for a moment, before rushing each other, enveloping each in a crushing hug. Time seemed to unwind, and as it seemed like yesterday that they had been hugging like this at the gates of Winterfell. As they were emerged in the hug, Jon heard the man named Doran receive a message from a page, via whisper, "The lady Dayne is here now". They broke apart, and Robb looked at Jon's black uniform.

"I didn't hear any news from the wall since you joined the watch" Robb was saying, laughing slightly, but there was emotion hidden at the fringes of the words. "You didn't…you didn't desert did you?" Robb asked, for his peace of mind.

Jon laughed, at the absurdity of the answer he must give, but that smile had a sad tinge for what he had endured, ever since he had rode north. Squaring himself, he looked at Robb.

"To my regret I did not. You see, after the attack on the wall, I was named Lord Commander. But when I reasoned that we would have need of the wildlings, whilst most of the captains of the other stations. They lured me out with the promise of information about uncle Benjen, and once there fell upon me with knives, and err, killed me." He finished. Silence followed this, with many a look of incredulity from the many lords, but Jon focused on Robb. There was surprise there, for he must have assumed Jon must be japing, but that slowly disappeared looking at Jon's face. But he was saved from asking the next question, by the booming voice that he grew up with.

"Fucking hell Snow, that is a mighty story by any standard. How did you come to be here now?" The Greatjon asked, the southern lords and ladies laughing lightly at his bluntness. Jon smiled, looking up at the giant. During this, someone, a woman wrapped in shawls, had slipped through the doors, almost shadow like in their subtlety, but at the mention of his last name, their head, which had been aimed low, had shot up, staring at Jon, who was focused on answering the question.

"Stannis' red priestess, Melisandre. She had powers, how they came to be I know not, but she managed to bring me back. Once her magic had run its course, her, Ser Davos and myself, beat a hasty retreat to White Harbor, and there I sailed down here." Jon finished simply, his face showing a black canvas, compared to the whirling storm of emotions that were inside him. Robb smirked slightly, grasping Jon's forearm.

"Well brother, we have both suffered, you I think, more than me. But we will pay these people back in kind." Robb finished, an angry tone finishing his words for him. Jon noticed a woman standing near them, clutching at her supposed brothers, they shared too many similarities not to be, arm, as she stared at Robb. He saw fear there, but also a bit of longing, and would remember to ask Robb about that, once they were alone. But that not to be, for another surprise reared its head then, for a girl, in the midst blooming into a beautiful woman, pushed through the soldiers, coming to a stop next to Robb, with tears falling from her blue eyes. She was petite, with the same auburn hair as Robb, but her eyes showed an emotion that Jon hadn't seen before directed at him.

"Sansa?" He asked, and she nodded, wiping her eyes, and rushing him, embracing the two of them. This was their family, as far as Robb and Sansa knew, and they had somehow reunited. They broke apart, arms still touching.

"Family reunions aside," Doran spoke, and Jon caught him giving a fleetingly fond look to a younger muscular man, who could only be the infamous 'Red Viper'. The man, Oberyn then gave a stern look towards his daughters, but around the fringes of the anger, Jon saw fondness, affection that even in anger he saw why they had done what they did. But he turned back to Doran, as he straightened up in his chair.

"Please everyone, I would like you to meet, the Lady Ashara Dayne, lady of Starfall." The woman in the colourful shawl, dropped it to her shoulders and turned towards them. The woman underneath, although showing signs of age, was undeniably a great beauty, in her youth and now. Her dark hair twisted and tumbled down one shoulder, sparkling as it did. Her face, whilst lined, was pretty, but it was her eyes. A striking shade of violet, but there was a haunting edge to them, as though she had lived through some hard times for her.

"Lady Ashara, I believe you have already acquainted with Jon Snow, bastard raised in Winterfell." He said the words so lightly, yet Jon sensed that there was an underlining meaning behind it. Ashara Dayne, had seemed so forlorn, looked up at his words, then at Jon. She stared at his face, as if looking for something she thought lost. She must have found that, because she gasped, moving closer to Jon.

"Jon?" she whispered, her voice like a half remembered song. Jon looked at her queerly.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but I have not had the pleasure."

"Jon, I'm your mother."

They had been allowed access of another room, with comfort enough, but Jon couldn't sit, his mind reeling. All his life, he had thought that his mother had been a tavern whore, some nobody who had caught the great Eddard Stark's eye. This, this was so far from his imaginings, that he had been brought forth into this world by a highborn lady. But this raised more questions. He turned to Ashara, who was stood several paces, biting her lip, watching him nervously.

"Tell me the story?" He asked simply, bursting with the thirst of understanding. She nodded and opened her mouth.

"I met your father at a tourney of Harrenhal, that fated event that caused the death of so many. He was, funny, he made me laugh, and I danced the night away with him, and his brothers. But nothing happened then, and we were fated not to see each other again, not until he arrived in King's Landing. It was in the black cells, that I saw him again, and it was there that we conceived you. That was the last time I saw him before I was just in the crowd, watching wordlessly as he died. At first, when I found that I was with child, I was ashamed of myself, many times tempted to drink moon tea, but I could not, I loved him so much, that several months later, you were born." She finished, her voice sounding hoarse. Jon had guessed that she many spent many a day in silence. His brow deepened though.

"Wait, my father was only in Kings Landing to witness the atrocities of the Lannister's and then as Hand of the King." He said, confused. It appeared that this confused Ashara also.

"Ned? Ned is not your father, his honour prevented this, although you seem to have taken his patience." She looked at him sharply

"Your father was the heir to Winterfell, the handsome man betrothed to another, murdered in the heart of Kings Landing, Brandon Stark." Jon reeled, falling into the chair behind him, with a loud groan as the chair was forced backwards. Eddard stark, was not his father, but his uncle. Robb and Sansa, they were not his brother and sister, but his cousins. His father died, not beheaded due to Joffrey Waters, but strangled himself to death, trying to have his own father, Rickard Stark. His hatred of the Lannister's simmering as he realised that the Targaryen's were responsible.

"So what happened when my uncle met you the last time, for I heard that he arrived at Starfall during the war?"

"Yes he did, but only to return the greatsword Dawn. I was there, caring for you, but he convinced me to surrender you to him, him sacrificing his honour for the secrecy, for I was not of the right mind, having learned that my brother, your uncle," she corrected smiling slightly, "Arthur Dayne, and I took the other baby from him. He made the way back to Winterfell."

"Why?" Jon asked, finding this almost overwhelming. "Why did Ned take me back to Winterfell?" Ashara gave him a sad smile at this.

"He said that Brandon's son should be raised at Winterfell, he would have wanted that." She walked up to Jon, slowly as though Jon would, could, walk away. She raised her hand to Jon's cheek.

No matter what you may feel when people call you Snow, you are so much more than that." She whispered, not unkindly. Jon stood there, leaning into his mother's hand. But there was another question he had to ask.

"Other baby?" But she kept that same sad smile upon her face.

"Not my secret to tell. But you, if Doran or your cousin legitimises you, then you would be the Heir to Starfall" Jon frowned at that, but was content to put it to rest. He slowly leaned in, and he did something he never thought would be possible. He hugged his mother.

"Mother." He whispered, and the answering squeeze from her was enough to make his heart soar.

Jon sat with Ghost, alone in the Water Garden's, staring at the fish swimming lazily around the pond. He was the child of the heir of Winterfell, but now he was the heir to Starfall? His head was spinning. He had been raised with no illusions of grandeur, so he had joined the nights watch. But now, if Robb found it in his heart to grant him the name of Stark, then he would be granted Lord of Starfall, his mother's home. Another thought leaped into his mind. Would Catelyn Stark have known this? If so, it would be another reason for her to hate him, as the only son of her first betrothed. He heard Ghost move off, and in another instant, the sounds characteristic of him and Grey Wind playing.

"Jon?" Came a voice. Jon looked up, knowing whose voice it was, smiling as Robb moved to sit next to him. A moment of silence, in which the sounds of children squealing and the wolves playing filled the void.

"My father is Brandon Stark." Jon blurted out. Robb froze beside him, before turning to him. He just studied him, before sighing, resting a hand around his shoulder.

"I am happy for you, I truly am." Jon looked sad at this, for another thought, so large a presence in his head before, emerging from the depths.

"But Robb, this means that you and I, and Sansa for that matter, are no longer siblings." Robb was shaking his head long before Jon had revealed his train of thought.

"Never." Robb said, with a fierce look upon his face. "You may not share the bond that we thought we had, but that won't change anything. You will always be my brother." Jon was stunned into silence by this, swallowing out of emotion. They sat in silence, watching the wolves, so carefree in this moment, that they could almost forget about why they were here.

"Oh yeah, speaking of which," Jon said, turning to his reinstated brother, a playful smile on his face. "Who was the beauty looking at you so longingly in the throne room?" Robb blushed at this, turning away slightly, embarrassed smile rising upon his lips.

"The Lady Margaery, of the house Tyrell. We were imprisoned together." Robb voice left an impression that they were more than that. Jon raised an eyebrow.

"Anything more than that?" His tone left no question that he saw through Robb. Robb in turn sighed.

"We might have been, but," Jon waved away his objections.

"But nothing. She clearly likes you, and you clearly respond to her feelings. Go find her." Jon said, a friendly smirk in place. Robb looked at him, sighing before standing, whistling for Grey Wind to follow him. Jon smiled at his brother, the legend who won as many battles as he had fingers, but was scared of the enigmatic enemy, women. But it seemed it was his turn to wrestle with this many faced beast for he felt something touch him at his back, something cold. Remembering the previous occasion that had occurred here in Dorne, he jerked away from it, hand shooting for Longclaw. But as he turned around, laughter greeted him, with the smiling form of woman from his dreams. She had forgone her snake scale armour, in favour of a sand silken dress, and looked much better for it.

"Bit touchy? Have you never been touched by a women before?" She said, smile turning to playful smirk on her face, as she walked out from the bench Jon had been using. Jon stayed standing, weary of her. She may be a beauty, but she had shown that he had better stay on his toes, around her.

"I have, but she was like you, so I would have moved anyway." He spoke, only partly japing, thinking back to Ygritte.

"So I am not the first women to touch you?" She said, pouting slightly. Jon smiled at this.

"Well she was a wildling, and I don't even know your name." He said, hopefully getting to know her better. She moved slightly closer, endless blue eyes trained on him, unblinking.

"My name is Tyene Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell. She may have been a woman from the North, but you have never had a dornish girl before." She said, winking, collecting her dress about her, sitting down, and patting the bench next to her. Jon hesitated, and Tyene's smile widened.

"Relax, Jon Snow. I swear I won't bite." Then her blue eyes shone with a spark of playfulness. "That hard." Jon laughed at this, hoping she was japing, taking his place next to her. Ghost, having lost his playmate, stood in front of them, watching Tyene, but his eyes showed weariness. Tyene turned to Jon, almost casually moving her arm to rest on his black cloaked arm.

"So, tell me more of your wildling woman?" She asked. Jon flinched slightly, remembering firstly all of her qualities, but in the forefront, her lying in his arms, arrow protruding from her chest, and his name, the last words on her lips. He sat there, waiting, before he started to speak.

"She was a beauty, her hair was 'kissed by fire', but most of all she was fierce." Jon finished. He tried but he couldn't bring himself to tell her about Ygritte's death. Tyene looked thoughtful for a moment, processing Jon's words, until she looked back at him, with a glint in her eye.

"A beauty was she. So, what about me?" She spoke sultrily, hand placed in Jon's arm starting to slowly trace his arms muscles. Jon started, blushing in the position. She knows how to play the game, he thought, struggling to find the words he needed.

"Of course you are," Jon started to say, "But I haven't met many dornish women, so I didn't know if it was the whole of Dorne, or just you." He waited, nervously, as she stared at him. But it was all for nought, as she smiled, obviously pleased with his answer.

"Well, for a Crow, you have a way with words." She said, smile still in place. Then the smile slowly dissolved as she leant in, golden hair falling onto her shoulders, even as she placed a delicate hand onto his cheek. Her lips, so hot and full of life, touched his, seemingly so cold, moved against her in unison. They moved against each other, hard and soft, Jon's hand moving to tangle itself in her silky golden hair. Time had seemed to stop for Jon, as her scent of earth and lemon invaded his senses. They parted, a line of saliva breaking apart at their lips moving away. Jon, breathing heavily, leant against her forehead, as she leant against his.

"For someone with only one lover, you are _very_ good." She whispered, smirk back in place. Jon smiled in return.

"I'm glad you think so." He said. Tyene moved, forcing Jon to lean back, resting on his shoulder. As Jon sat back, watching Ghost sit there, the silent sentinel, Jon wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Robb POV

Walking through the many fountains, weaving through children squealing still at the sight of his companion, Robb was worried. Margaery had not been receptive of his advances ad gazes aboard the boat. Fervently hoping this would be different, he walked out into the open. Fortune was his, as he chanced upon both Ser Loras and Margaery, sitting at a table, talking animatedly. They broke off, as Grey Wind trotted up behind him. Robb walked up to, but stopped short of the table, suddenly filled with nerves.

"My Lady, would you accompany for a walk?" Robb asked, stumbling over his words. What if she rejected him? But again, fortune smiled on him for, after a placating look towards her brother who had raised himself slightly out of his chair, standing and walking around to him.

"Of course, your Grace," she said, smiling at him, and Robb detected no falsehood to it. Robb offered her his arm, and after she looped her arms through it, they slowly began to walk away. Robb had talked to her before about many things, in the darkness of Kings Landing, but not there were no secrets between them. He was Robb stark, not the man she chanced upon in the dungeons.

"So, my lady" He began, after a suitable time spent talking about other such things. "I want to apologise." Margaery looked confused at this, creasing her cream skin as she frowned.

"For deceiving you in the cells." Robb elaborated, and her face fell somewhat, to Robb's chagrin, but he continued. "I was afraid, afraid you wouldn't trust me. I had been trapped in that room for months with no company, nobody to speak to, and then you appeared, my sunshine in the darkness. Our families fought on opposite sides in not one but two wars, I liked, I liked you and I didn't know you would return your affections for the deposed King of the North." He finished, surprised at himself for revealing so much, feeling open to the world. He looked away, a mirror that had been opaque. But to Margaery he had turned transparent.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Margaery, but it was the joyous expression on her face. She moved, quickly jumping, forcing Robb to catch her. Suddenly close, noses touches, Margaery smiled, one of warmth.

"Robb." She whispered, moving darting her head, as a bird would for prey, but his lips were hers. Shock flooded his system, and caused his arms gripped her all the tighter to him, even as their lips moulded to each other. She had her arms around his neck, pulling him into her. But they were forced to break apart as Grey Wind howled, the noise ripping through the tranquil gardens, causing children and lords and ladies alike, to turn in shock and terror at the noise. Removing his lips from Margaery's, albeit reluctantly, he turned to look down amused at his wolf, who was looking at the young couple, tongue lolling out of his mouth, normally so threatening, now seemingly playful. He barked a laugh.

"My apologies, boy." He said, smirking at the wolf, even as the Lady in his arms, moved to rest her head in the crease of his shoulder, laughing in embarrassment. Robb leant in to whisper in her ear.

"My lady, do I have your forgiveness?" He asked. She removed herself from his shoulder, her mouth set into a hard line, but Robb noted that the ends of which were turning up in amusement to look into his eyes, brown into blue. They seemed to meld together in that instant, deeper than that had with that simple kiss. Eventually, she smiled, revealing the whites of her teeth.

"Yes, I think I will deign to give you that." She said, and they walked further into the garden, arm in arm, together.

A/N I do apologise for the delay in chapter. My beta was in hospital with problems of a feminine nature. Hope you enjoy it. Read and review please!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Dragons coming home to roost.

Jon POV

Walking back into the cathedrallike room, as the Lords and Ladies, Jon was feeling cautiously optimistic. Of course, he reasoned, walking in with a beauty such as Tyene Sand clutching your arm, could not hurt your happiness but only nurture it. Jon moved to stand by Robb, with whom, Jon noticed feeling no small amount of pride, that had one fur lined arm around the beauty that was Margaery Tyrell. Upon feeling eyes on him, Robb looked up. Upon realising it was Jon's smirking gaze watching him, Robb flushed, a bright red racing across his face. Sending a proud smile back at Jon, as Jon stopped next to him.

"Not a word." Robb whispered, causing Jon to laugh quietly. He felt a small sharp pinch on his arm, and turned wincing, to look at Tyene, a playful smile dancing across those red ruby lips.

"I was under the impression that you had given your arm and heart to me, not your brother." Jon smirked in return, lowering his face, touching lips in an almost chaste kiss. Jon turned to look at the people he had not the patience to look at last time, noting Tyene's pouting face looking his way. The last of the Lords and Ladies moved into the room, including his mother, the Lady Dayne. She had transformed since Jon had accepted her as his birth mother. She swept into the room, dressed in a deep purple dress, interspersed by Golden stars, as though it was the night sky. Her face lit up as she glanced down to see Tyene's arm so tenderly wrapped around his own. She would have spoken, to show her pleasure, but was interrupted in the form of Prince Oberyn wheeling in his brother Doran.

"Everyone." Doran said, although he said the words with diminished volume, everyone's conversations were silenced, as though by a wind, as all heads turned to look at him.

"We have a good deal to talk about and not a lot of time to put the action into words." He began, with his brother moving forward to the table to place their figureheads, sun with spear piercing its centre, onto the map of Westeros, at the very south.

"We currently are raising an army of ten to fifteen thousand Dornishmen, or so my Lords tell me", He spoke turning his head softly to the other men at the other side of the map.

"Now, if we are to have the might of the Lords of the Reach," He continued looking to Ser Loras, who stood of to the side, but his attention was based purely on the map, studying it. At the mention of his home, he jumped slightly, moving to the forefront of the room. Clearing throat he addressed the silence and watchful room.

"The Reach fought with the dragon and snakes before, before we were forced to join with the lions. But they turned on us. We would have us allies once again." He finished, face set in stone. He had chosen his words carefully, and Margaery, as Jon glanced at her to gauge her response, smiled a fierce smile, collaborating non-verbally with him. Doran nodded in return. Prince Oberyn, beaming fiercely removed, from a wooden box at his feet, a wars set of Golden Roses, to match his suns.

"Now, the Reach will need to marshal their army, we will leave that for you and you lords, Ser Loras. Now," The Prince spoke, turning his head to Robb Stark, who Jon noted with a warm smile was whispering something into Margaery's ear. It warmed him to think that after his poor choice in previous love, his heart was finding reason. Doran coughed slightly, pulling Robb from the throes of young love, and back into the world in which they lived in. "Will the North be joining us in this campaign?" Robb laughed at this, moving forward as he did so. Evidently he found some source of amusement in it that everyone else lacked.

"With the rescue King's Landing, I am in your debt. The wolf shall dance with the sun and flower across the back of dead lions." Jon felt a shiver fall down the sheer cliff of his back. Robb had been betrayed by his followers and his enemies. But now, now he had a chance of paying them in kind, and he seemed to be taking it in both hands. Doran Martell nodded, neither joyous nor sad at this news, turning to Oberyn who was bringing an extra box towards the table.

"You're lucky that my brother is as smart as he is, and had the foresight make these." Oberyn smirked, as he reached on muscled arm into the shadowy depths. Out came onto the table, for all to see, the Direwolf of Stark, seeming so real they looked to join the war in fullest effort. Oberyn gave them to Robb, who turned to look at the Greatjon. He had been queer as of this meeting, remaining quiet until now, as his eyes meet Robb's, he nodded to which Robb nodded in return. He placed them at several places in the North, the Last Hearth and Moat Cailin being only a couple of them.

"The Bolton's might well command the North, but they do not hold their Loyalty," Robb said, voice filling the room. "The Starks left them breathing the last time they rebelled. I intend to correct my ancestor's mistakes. We shall sail to White Harbor, raising their Banner and soldiers. We shall move to other castles, known to have zealous loyalty to my family. Then we shall descend upon Winterfell, sword and spear in hand. It was once my home, full of laughter and joy. I intend to make it so again." Robb seemed to grow shy at this, stepping backwards from the attention, but his words had been enough. Doran and Oberyn looked at each other, nodded, and Doran shattered his silence of emotion by smiling.

"Now, we have needs of coordination. There are many…" Doran started, back he never revealed that line of thought, for there came a shout from outside of the Palace, prompting the shooting looks of nerves fleeing many directions in the suddenly still room. Bursting into the room, a soldier, breathing hard, skidded on the warm marble floor, hands placed upon sides, before remembering his place, and company. Standing he looked to the Princes.

"My Prince, there is a fleet, large of number, sailing into the Water Palace." This was the gust of warm air needed to fuel the fire of fear, as people began panicking. Oberyn banged the box against table, the loud bang bringing panic to heel.

"Patience my Lords. Now, tell me soldier, were they flying any flags?" The soldier looked around before nodding.

"Yes, your Grace. They flew the Dragon of Targaryen."

"Can't I abandon this absurdity? I am not yet a lord of Dorne." Jon moaned of Tyene, who smirked playfully. Most all of the Lords and Ladies were moving to meet the Targaryen's on the sand, but Tyene, and his mother agreed, that Jon should no longer wear the cloak of the watch. Instead he now wore purple, adorned with the star and sword of house Dayne. Jon saw Ghost, tongue, prink pink in the sun, lolling out, whilst showing his own ghost of a smile. Tyene walked around him briefly, making the odd adjustment, before finding his arms and lips, with her own.

"Perfect, now you look like someone I wouldn't get in trouble fucking." And walked away, hips swaying seductively, as Jon spluttered for words to answer. This girl is worse than Ygritte Jon thought, before falling short of happiness remembering her. But now was not the time for melancholy. Jon rushed to follow her, through the doors. The Gardens were absent of children, which seemed to take heart away from the waters. The sun seemed to have left also, leaving them with a canopy of cloud. Jon ran through, footsteps loud in the skidding slightly on wet patches of marble, Ghost keeping pace beside him. As he ran, his fur looked like it was a snow storm, as his fur shaking as the muscles underneath, hidden from view, propelled him with his companion. They moved to the gate, Guards snapping to attention, and ran through, nodding to them as he did, stumbling as his feet meet soft sand. Breathing heavily, he eventually arrived at the beach, they boat that brought him having long travelled away. The boats, now nearing the wooden jetty, had slowed. Jon could see, flying above the main sail, a coat of arms with a black spear with golden skulls adorning it. That's a lot of boats, Jon thought, thinking as they moved into spearhead formation, but those thoughts were destroyed, utterly. A roar shattered the uneasy silence. Looking up towards the heavens, the words to articulate escaped him.

"Seven hells…" he whispered, a dragon leaped through the cloud, aiming for them, swiftly followed by two others. The first, the largest of the trinity, was the vision held of nightmares, looking twenty paces across. With wings and scales black as pitch, its eyes, visible even from the beach, were red, like blood, or smouldering lava pits. The next one, hot on the tail of the first, was green, like bright jade. But as it beat its wings, to the sound of thunder, Jon could see polished bronze gracing the edges of its wings. The last of the trinity was cream, but cream the colour of bleached bones, but its eyes were the colour of molten gold.

The lords and Ladies currently populating the beach, moved backwards in a singular wave, as the dragons dropped to the beach.

"Jon!" he heard a cry, seeing Tyene moving towards, all sultry look long gone as she grasped his arm, with fear or anger he knew not. Moving forward, he rushed to the rapidly thinning crowd, until he heard a cry that silenced the dragons, and the crowd drew still. Jon stood there, frozen in anticipation or fear he admitted to neither, just standing with Tyene, waiting. There came a cry from the front. Jon hearing his name, moved forward, parting the crowd as he did.

Dany POV

"Aunty, this is amazing, to be sure!" Aegon shouted to her. Dany, smiling a serene smile on the outside, whilst the child inside whopped in joy. Truly, riding a dragon was a magic, only few would have known. Drogon flew through the air as though he was weightless, a mere piece of cloth held by the wind, whilst Rhaegal soared past, Aegon still shouting to the heavens upon him. She looked upon him fondly. This is what Viserys should have been, before the madness of the Targaryen's and the need for the Iron Throne settled upon him.

"Rhaegal, come." She called, and the dragon turned to her, before dropping back to follow Drogon. The dipped through the clouds, cold and wet, shooting through her white blond hair, which was streaming behind her.

As they descended down to the beach nearing the Water Gardens, she heard screaming, that started quiet, but soon spread in pitch and quantity. Drogon landed on the beach, sand rising in all directions as a golden wave, as she herself was jolted forwards.

"Drogon!" she shouted and the behemoth she was currently astride calmed. The man and women before her, staring at her avidly, a woman of Targaryen looks, riding a dragon, all of whom were long thought extinct. Then there rang forth laughter. A man walked to the front, of bronzed skin, with flowing black hair, spear in hand, woman, three, in his shadow. His laugh was deep and long, even in the face of dragons, for which she dubbed him either brave or a fool.

"Who are you?" she demanded. The man looked at her, his eyes seeing something more than just flesh.

"I am the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn Martell. You must be the famed Daenerys Targaryen, mother of dragons, although that rumour now bares fruit that has a truthful taste." He said, looking at Drogon, with something akin to awe. A loud thump, sand shooting over her shoulder told her that Rhaegal had landed, then Viserion. Slowly and methodically moving down Drogon's scales, and jumping the short distance to the floor, Dany moved to greet him, his lips gracing her cheek.

"Uncle." Came a cry, as Aegon descended Rhaegal and moved to meet Oberyn. Oberyn's face wore a mask of confusion.

"I do not know you, not least have the pleasure of calling you nephew." He replied, staring down at this boy. Aegon's hair had been burnt to his scalp during his 'test', but this made his eyes mummery no longer, strikingly violet now. Aegon smiled, and stepped closer.

"You did Uncle, but this was many years ago, in the Red Keep." He finished, and Oberyn eyes widened, shock radiating though his whole being. Moving closer, he stood all but a step from Aegon, looking closer at him, trying to discern something.

"Aegon…" he whispered, blurring as he enveloped his newly discovered nephew. Dany smiled at this warm reunion. A commotion in the crowd, and a man, with auburn hair, freed himself of the crowd, moving to Oberyn's shoulder.

"Prince Oberyn, should we not bring the guests to your brother." Oberyn released Aegon, laughing as he did so. "Of course, Robb. Queen Daenerys, this is _King_ Robb Stark, King in the North." Dany looked at him for a minute, regarding him, even as he looked at her, eyes as hard as ice. But then a wolf, of formidable size, of blackened grey fur, moved to stand at the King's side, nudging him slightly, before regarding the Women before him, and more evidently Drogon, with intelligent yellow eyes. The direwolf and dragon, gazed at each other, before breaking that gaze. The ice melted in his eyes as he smiled, before turning, evidently looking for someone.

"Jon!" Robb shouted, hearing a shouted reply, before returning his gaze to Dany. "I'm sorry your Grace, but I would have my brother feast his eyes on this sight. He may be a Snow, but he is my brother in blood, if not in name." Dany sighed, thinking back to her dreams. That man, that handsome man, had been one of the Nights Watch, as she had found, after discussing it with Ser Barristan, one evening, sailing across the Narrow Sea. He would be there, even now, living in Castle Black, not even knowing about her existence.

There was a shout as a man pushed through the crowd to stand next to his brother. A wolf, even larger than the first, its fur of powdered snow, stood next to its littermate, red eyes filled with worry.

"Your Grace, this is my brother in blood, Jon Snow." His face's attention, framed with dark black hair, was held by his eyes, enigmatic pools, brown eyes that were so dark, they appeared black, large in wonder as he gazed upon her. Dany's heart felt like it was to burst from her chest, and her breathing, so light and fluttery now, reflected upon this. Dany mind was at odds with her body, curious as to why it was reacting so, but then her mind caught up to where her body was, and she gasped. This was the man, the man from her dreams, the man she had falling in love with whilst sleeping. Never had she thought she would be able to meet him.

Dany smiled, her lips trembling, at this man, this mysterious, handsome man. She opened her mouth to try and say something, anything, but another person pushed themselves through the crowd.

This woman, even Dany could take note, was a rare gem, a beauty by anyone's standards, with her long golden hair and bright blue eyes. Dany could have mistaken her for Lannister, were it not for the dusky brown dress she was wearing, and the fact that her presence was even here without accident. But that was the last thing on her mind as the woman made her way to the man of her dreams and, to her horror, took his hand, weaving her fingers through his own. Her heart felt like it would break apart in her chest. Her kindness was shattered, replaced by the coldness of jealousy.

"Why should a queen meet a bastard?" she spat. She instantly regretted this, for this man Jon's face, which had been filled of so much happiness, for maybe the same reasons that hers had, fell, broken, replaced by anger, hard and cold, like the epitome of the North itself. Even Oberyn raised an eyebrow

"With respect _your Grace,_ I may be entwined in this endeavour, but I share no warmth for the Targaryen's, with exception of Aemon Targaryen of the Watch. My father, Brandon Stark, was murdered in the Red Keep, even as he tried in vain to save his own father. Now if my knowledge is good, that was by your father's hand, was it not?" he asked, eyes burrowing into her own, anger like a cold flame, dancing across his eyes. She swallowed, fear gripping her, as this was falling far out of her grasp. He nodded, arm moving to encircle the woman next to him, his woman, who face showed hurt, though it looked more empathetic.

"Then I would thank you for exacerbating that." He said, turning away, wolf and woman in toe, as they walked away from them. Dany felt like a husk of the Queen that had landed on the beach. She had been as a spoilt child, refusing to accept that, as a Queen, anything could refuse her. How wrong she was. Robb Stark, although his gaze sympathetic, not entirely directed at her, though he did not follow his cousin. Oberyn Martell, silent throughout the heated exchange, but he moved to put a hand on her shoulder, his dark eyes, so hard before, were filled with sympathy.

"Come, your Grace, I would think you need a drink to recover. Let us depart here and meet my brother."

They waited for the ships to dock, and Dany laughed, as she looked upon the warm reunion of Oberyn Martell and his known nephew, Quentyn Martell. The Dornishman had become more confident the further they sailed away from Meereen, and nearer to his home in Dorne. She had sent the dragons to stay outside of the Water Gardens, by Oberyn's command. They had not been happy about, thrashing their tails, whipping a whirlwind of sand into being, but they still followed her will. As she walked, the sounds of children voices haunting the air, her nose was assailed by the scent of lemons. She swayed slightly, hit by a hard wave of nostalgia, her childhood memories of lemon trees and a red door. Maybe she would find the answer to that, she thought following a laughing uncle and nephew, with Aegon at her shoulder.

"What do you think they have need of us for?" Aegon asked, whispering into Dany's ear even as they wound their way through the pink marble columns. Dany suspected these were his own darkest fears, revealed to her in his moment of doubt. That he wouldn't be able to live up to the large legacy that had been placed firstly on her shoulders, but was now paced onto him, the last male of the house Targaryen. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"They would have need of dragons, both dragons cloaked in scales, and the ones cloaked in skin. They will help you, Doran and Oberyn are family." She spoke, and she could see the calm edge returning to his eyes. He smiled as they reached door of sun, and were escorted through even as a soldier announced them.

"Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Mother of Dragons, and Aegon Targaryen." Aegon grimaced at his lack of titles, but Dany supposed that was what happened with a life in secrecy. She squeezed his arm, his face seemingly gaining confidence from this, as they moved into the cathedral-like room. She saw, to her continued sorrow, Jon snow with the girl of golden hair, standing with Robb stark who, she noted had an arm around a woman of golden roses. They were gathered around a table, which at closer inspection as both Aegon and her moved closer, held a great map of Westeros, decorated with sun and spear for Dorne, Roses for the Tyrells, whom Dany supposed the girl with Robb Stark was, and the direwolf of Stark in the barrenness of the North, but they seemed to have few friends there, surrounded by figures of flayed men. The man, seated in wheeled chair, was the man she supposed was Doran Martell. His face, whilst showing signs of age, had no wrinkles around the mouth, showing no symptoms of emotion. But his face broke into joyous smile, as his eldest son greeted him with furious embrace. Once they had parted, and his face had set again into ambivalence, Doran's eyes, a brown the colour of mud, fell upon Daenerys and Aegon.

Your grace, though your presence warms us greatly, we must ask: why have you chosen now to travel back to Westeros?" He asked, steeping his fingers together. Dany glanced at Aegon, then to Quentyn, who nodded. Lastly, her eyes flickered to Jon Snow, who was regarding her wearily. Moving her eyes to the ruling prince, despite the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, she opened her mouth.

"Your offer, your Grace. I could not return before, I did not have the army needed to take the throne, coupled with my desire to help the slaves in Slaver's Bay. But I came to realise that I could not save them, due to rebellion in every city I conquered. Finally, your son came, and his offer sparked the fire of remembrance and, well, here I stand before you. As well as the son, Aegon, of your sister, Elia." Doran face had remained impassive as he listened, but broke into shock at the final words, turning to look at first Aegon, who gave a sad smile of his, then to Oberyn at his side.

"It is him, brother. It is Elia's ghost before us." He said, another sad smile in place. Doran smiled, a glorious smile, before that too vanished into obscurity.

"Well, you will always be welcome, both of you." He spoke, looking between them. Then he shifted forward in his seat, pain flashing across his face as he did so. "Do you intend to fight with us?" Her eyes once again sought out Jon Snow, whose eyes bore into her own, sending a wave of shivers across her small frame that had nothing to do with temperature. She turned away, hating it as she did so, and nodded to which the Ruling prince nodded in return.

"So brother," Doran spoke looking at Oberyn. "I think we should have the carpenter make us a set of dragons."

Sansa POV

Since the first meeting she had been involved with, she had avoided them. She had no mind for war, so she had taken to walking the gardens. After a while on her first walk, the smell of lemon, and children's cry echoing throughout, she had heard a cry from behind her. A girl, in the midst of flowering, with golden hair, and blue eyes. Her heart stopped, but this girl was not Cersei Lannister, but her daughter, Myrcella. She had all of her mother's beauty, but none of her mother's greed and ambition.

"Myrcella!" She cried, running to her old friend, enveloping her in a hug, dresses swirling underneath. As she looked over her friends shoulder, she then realised that they were not alone. The boy behind her, turning into a man, still had a boyish face, coupled with his olive skin and straight black hair. He was clad in silks decorated with sun and spear. This must be her betrothed, Trystane Martell.

"So, Cella, this must be your betrothed, Trystane?" she asked of her friend, once they had untangled themselves. Myrcella blushed, and giggling, nodded moving back to wrap her arms around him. Sansa noted a hint of pride in her complexion, as though she was thrilled that she had claimed him, all to herself.

"My lady, it is an honour to meet your acquaintance." Trystane said, his voice having the smooth edge his uncle had. "My Myrcella had told me all about you." Sansa blushed, not used to praise. Myrcella beamed, her smile holding so much more warmth than her mother's.

"Why, that is most kind of you, your Grace, but…" She started to say, but was interrupted by someone calling from behind her.

"My brother has certainly done well for himself, with two woman beside him." They turned as one and saw a man, in armour, spear tied to his back, walking towards them. He appeared old, a man grown, short in stature. His olive skin was slightly paler, than his brother, but his black hair was longer, hanging down to his shoulders. Trystane gave a great roar of delight, rushing forward to embrace this man, who claimed himself brother. Sansa raised an eyebrow at Myrcella, who shrugged in return. They waited as the men parted still smiling at one another, still smiling.

"Seven hells Quentyn, I never thought you would return from your mission." Trystane said, half smiling, to which his brother, Quentyn replied, laughing.

"Neither did I, but fortune smiled on me, talking of which," he said, looking to Sansa, roguish smile in place. "My brother forgets his manners, might I ask your name, my lady" Sansa blushed, redness rushing across her delicate skin. Quentyn did not have a face the bards would have called handsome, but it was kind, Sansa thought as he took her hand, pressing his lips to her hand delicately.

"Sansa Stark, your Grace." She said, to which he raised his eyebrows.

"Another wolf? Fasting becoming normality where once it was a rarity. How is Dorne treating you, Lady Sansa?" He asked her, smile in place, but it seemed a shy one, small, easily startled.

"Very well in fact. I love it here. It is so...peaceful. And of course good company only augments it." She replied, looking to Myrcella, who blushed lightly at the praise.

"Um…" Quentyn looked nervous at something, his confident mummery fading, as he wrung his hands together. "I was wondering, if I would be allowed to show you more of the Water Gardens, Lady Sansa?" Sansa flushed, blood rushing to her cheeks. Only Ser Loras had asked her so boldly, and she know now that he harboured no feelings for her, but she had already wandered them many times. She was opening her mouth, mouthing the words to decline, but Myrcella's words beat hers in haste.

"She would love to, your Grace." She said hastily. When Quentyn's back was turned Sansa looked at her queerly. Myrcella, and Trystane who bore a conspirator smirk, pushed her encouraging her forward, and to take hold of the eldest princes' arm.

Even as Sansa walked away talking animatedly to the young Prince, holding his arm as she did so, she looked back to see both Myrcella and Trystane kissing, a gentle devoid of passion but not lacking in emotion, before they turned away walked down the opposite direction. Sansa turned back, laughing at something Quentyn had said. Dorne was definitely growing on her, she decided, the scars that had been formed by Joffrey slowly fading as she wandered down the pathway, arm in arm with Quentyn.

Dany POV

The sun dawned bright and early over the fountains, but was awake to meet the rays. She had not slept, cursing herself again and again for what she had said yesterday.

After a like meal to break her fast, Dany walked quickly through the maze like marble, pale dress swirling around her. She was wracked with guilt but it was more to it than that. She had heard tales of old, of men and women being two halves of a whole being, finding your other half. She had not given it much thought, instead focusing on ruling her cities and subjects. That was however, until she meet Jon Snow.

She turned a corner, and walked into a courtyard, filled with laughter. Robb Stark, and the Tyrell girl, sitting across a courtyard from Jon Snow, sitting with arm wound around the golden blond haired woman. She stared at that arm, wishing it was around her instead.

They were all watching, laughing loudly, as both their wolves play fought. Even though there was a whole chorus of snarling form both parties, white against the dark grey, when one pinned the other, there was ghosts of smiles on each of their faces, as the other moved off them. The laughter slowly died, as the four of them spied her watching them from the shadows. She moved into the light, Ser Barristan copying her movements. Clutching her dress tightly in her arms, she moved forward, coughing slightly.

"Erm, J…Jon Snow, would you join me for a walk?" She stammered, internally cursing her feelings. She had been so confident before, but now she was a giggling infant girl with her first crush. Jon Snow, looked slightly angry at her, which considering their earlier conversation, was a far more seasoned emotion than she was expecting. The girl next to her stood up, anger as clear as day written across her face as did Robb, but Jon placed a hand on her shoulder.

"It's alright Tyene, if she tries to kill me, then you can come in and save the damsel in distress." Jon said, smirking down at her. She returned the smirk, but turned to Dany, anger fuelled fire in her eyes, as she stood on her toes and placed her own lips across his. Dany turned away, looking at Robb instead. His blue eyes seemed to see far more than she would have liked, and his eyes filled with sympathy, the hate extinguished, blown away on the wind. But she looked away as Jon moved towards her, purple robes swirling around him, dark grey eyes giving nothing away, as he offered his arm to her. Accepting it without complaint, they started walking away. As they walked she willed her heart to stop trying to beat out of her chest, stilling her breathing, as her hands gripped onto his sleeve, feeling his sculpted muscles underneath. The moved through the halls, silence haunting over them, until Dany couldn't take it anymore.

"Lord Snow," She began, but he flinched away from her at her words, face masked in pain.

"Please, your Grace, I would much prefer just Jon." He said, pain slipping away as a small smile appeared on her lips.

"Okay then, Jon and you may call me Daenerys. I must beg your forgiveness from my comments yesterday." Jon looked at her, silent as the snow itself, indicating for her to continue. She took a deep breath.

"I was angry at…something and I snapped at you. It was a lapse in judgement, and I crave your pardon for it." Jon looked at her his hard black eyes searching her violet, sad ones. They stared for a while, seconds or minutes, it was irrelevant. Finally, the dark eyes softened upon the violet.

"I will Daenerys, if you would forgive my comments directed back at you?" he asked. She smiled, stretching across her face, heart feeling like it would burst from her chest.

"Forgotten as though taken from the wind." She said, laughing as they moved to sit upon a dais. Jon looked at her, smiling, but there was a frown, like a flower, slowly blooming across his face.

"Daenerys," he voiced, after a moment of companionable silence, "If I may, why were you feeling angry?" Dany turned away, heart starting to beat faster again. She had to be honest with him, but deep inside her heart was saying she couldn't keep anything from him, not those beautiful eyes.

"Later, maybe I'll tell you." She replied, eyes sparkling at Jon. He smiled in return. Dany's eyes fell on the wolf, white as snow with its eyes, red as blood, looking at her.

"How do you and Robb come by these direwolfs?" She asked, watching as the wolf itself turned to Jon, as though interested in his answer. Jon smiled moving his hand to rest on the wolf's hand.

"Before…before I became a man of the Nights Watch, our family chanced upon a mother direwolf, with pups, one for each of the Stark children," Jon finished. "And me. Ghost was the runt of the litter, and so we were perfect for each other." He added, looking down fondly as Ghost, who meet his eyes with equal feeling. "You Targaryen's, you have your dragons, only fair that we of the North have our wolves." Dany laughed at this. He was a quiet soul, but when he spoke, you could see the bravery and kindness there as well. Dany blushed as he looked at her for a shade too long. His gaze was electrifying.

"You know, Dorne doesn't treat bastards any differently, so even if your brother doesn't see fit to legitimise you, you wouldn't be treated any differently here." Jon looked pensive at her words, staring down as Ghost, twitched his head away, flies tormenting him.

"Robb will come through, I know he will." Jon said, fist clenching. "But Dorne is far nicer to bastards than I had reason to expect. Knowing my mother was here was just a bonus." Dany looked back at him

"Your mother is the Lady Ashara Dayne, is she not?" Jon nodded.

"She, the woman whom I believe was the late Princess Elia Martell's lady in waiting?" Jon looked confused.

"You would have to ask my mother about that." He replied.

They talked long into the afternoon, about everything, both great and small, until the sun was shrinking into the horizon, the sun's rays, striking their faces. Jon stood.

"Well as lovely as it was to talk to you Dany, I must be getting back to Tyene. It was lovely talking to you, I hope we can have a repeat of this." Dany saddened at his leaving, saddened still as the woman he had chosen came back into her mind. Blinking away the tears that had swept suddenly into her eyes, she nodded, shaking smile in place, as he smiled to her then turned away, stepping away.

As he walked away, the tears slowly leaked from her amethyst eyes, blotching the innocent cream dress.

"My lady, are you alright?" Ser Barristan rushed to her service, on his knees, looking up with large sympathetic eyes. She took a deep breath, filled with quiet sobs.

"No, Ser Barristan, it is not."

A/N Fear not, this is not the end of Dany and Jon. Also i apologise for the late update, particularly for some of the more impatient among you :) Anyway, hope you like it, review are always appreciated :)


	8. Chapter 8

A/N Firstly, I apologise to all of you, eagerly awaiting the next chapter (you know who you are!) but uni has been incredibly busy. I hope to finish at least another chapter before I go back. Reviews are always welcome! Hope you enjoy, although it does have a mature scene, so for those who either don't want to read that, or get as embarrassed as I was writing it, then skip forwards.

Chapter 8 Parting one from the other

Robb POV

As the evening pierced his eyelids, Robb awoke to feel sharp scratches across his naked torso. He had felt so tired from the previous day ordeals, he retreated to his room, Drifting back into reality, he felt a pressing weight. Slowly cracking open one of his blue eyes, he saw a blurry shape resting above his face. Crying out, he threw the weight of his chest, rolling over, grabbing his knife off a table as he did so, to stand pale as the stranger, naked chest heaving as he stared across the room. He breathed a comforting breath as Grey Wind's stoic yellow eyes returned his gaze, his forepaws resting on the bed that he had just vacated. He looked out of the window, seeing the sun begin to travel back towards the horizon. I must have He released the tense breath he was holding, moving to sit on the bed, head in hands.

This was the last day he would be spending in Dorne, the land of sun and sand. Come the morrow, he would be travelling to White Harbor, his home, but he was reluctant to leave. The first reason was Jon, who was to be staying in Dorne, firstly for his mother and then because of Tyene. The deceptively harmless woman, may have been the saviour of Jon, he thought, seeing the pain, undiluted and raw, barely kept in check behind the dark eyes of his. But Tyene had moved the tide of hurt away, replacing it with hope, once again.

The second, and last, was Margaery, his own winter rose. She was different as fire to ice, compared to Jeyne, both different sides of the same coin. But where he had married Jeyne to save her honour over his own, he desired marriage for himself and Margaery for love. He felt it, deep down in his stomach, bubbling away. He had seen girls around Winterfell and on his doomed campaign, and had desires for them, but never such as this. But it hurt all the more now that their time of parting was at hand.

He quickly dressed, hoping to see her before the feast tonight, some that would be solely for them, and them alone. He walked quickly through the maze or marble, glancing around fleetingly, Grey Wind hot on his heels. He moved past a doorway, and moved to a stop when he heard a commotion emanating from the room. Moving to investigating the noise, he saw that fortune was surely on his side today, for it was Margaery, surrounded by servants, packing what little clothing had been gifted to her, into trunks of various trunks. He stopped at the lacquered doorway, one hand nervously tapping against the ornate wood, the other, after forcing his nerves down, knocking against the same wood. The women, as though all their nerves were pieces of fraying rope, snapped as they started at the sound of fist striking wood. Margaery's head snapped to the source of the sound, and warm smile was born upon discovering who had birthed the noise

"I hope I'm not interrupting, my Lady?" Robb ventured, smile being born in response to hers, feeling that emotion, undiluted, for her once again.

"You are, but I would relish your interruption your Grace," she replied before turning to the serving women around her. "We will continue this later." She said, and wry smiles and winks were their response as they quickly swept from the room, and outside, as Robb stepped into the room, he swore he could hear quiet giggles, which were quietened quickly after. Robb walked slowly to the bed, sitting down, lump suddenly found in throat.

"You're leaving on the morrow?" he asked, jovial manner lost slightly as the melancholy feeling crept into his voice. She obviously saw through his innocent question, for she came to sit by his side, her hand finding his.

"Even as you do. Good thing too, I have come under with colds due to wolf fur." She teased, at both Grey Wind, who was standing vigilant at the doorway and himself, but Robb could see sadness in her soulful brown eyes. He turned to her.

"I… don't want to be apart from you." He stated, and it pleased him slightly that this brought a blush upon her face, even as her eyes shone.

"Nor I, yet I must go to Highgarden for safety, and my brother's insistence, and you…you must take back the North. Please, Robb," She urged, her hand finding his in a grip of steel. "Be the fiercest of the wolves and bring them all to heel, but be cunning, please I beg of you, for I would keep you in this world, with me." Her eyes, as hard as they ever had been, sent a shiver down his back, even as his mouth formed the words to seal the act.

"We haven't the time or resources to announce it before we leave, but, after we have struck down the bastard lions, would you do me the honour or becoming my beloved, my wife…my Queen?" silence struck upon them then, even as Robb's eyes, fell to his hands which, he noticed were shaking in hers. He didn't watch her face, didn't want to, for fear of the rejection he so expected.

A hand, cool to the touch, forced his eyes back to latch onto hers, even as her lips found his. He froze, before moving in unison, his lips moving in synchronicity against hers. They broke apart, foreheads resting against each other, the only sound being their ragged breathing.

"Of course I will Robb, my Robb." She replied, giggling slightly, such was her happiness, which he could see in her eyes, replacing the sadness, a bright merry flame. "The only thing we will not have time for," she continued, getting up of the bed, and walking to the door, crouching down to whisper something in Grey wind's ear, after which his deep yellow eyes flashed to Robb before trotting out through the open door, even as Margaery closed it, the lock echoing slightly as it was used, "Is the night after the wedding ceremony, for we can get married tomorrow, before we leave".

Turning, she gave him another smile, though this was full of lust and longing, the depths of which caused a coldness to pass up Robb's back, though it had nothing to do with nerves.

"You surely will be the death of me." He growled at her, even as she raced towards him, flinging herself upon him, giving herself to him freely, even as he gave himself to her. Their kisses burned with passion, even as they were broken apart for the accursed clothing that was the bane of their lives at this moment. They vested themselves of clothing, falling backwards onto the bed, and Robb stared at her, lying beneath him, bereft of clothing and cover. Cover that she wore like a mask. Her eyes, pupils wide with lust, shone like the stars that would be appearing in the night's sky above them, whilst her ashen pale skin was the moon beside them.

His kisses, starting at the corner of her mouth, which she turned, trying to return it, but his softly kept her from doing so, along with a teasing smile. moving, he slowly descended the length of her body, trailing blazing hot kisses against her cold supple cheek, her sharp chin, the smooth curvature of her breast with dusky red nipples rising with arousal, her stomach so taut yet so soft, all the way down to her sex, which was framed by brown wiry hair. His lips kissed her sex, whilst she rived above him, her hands twisted into his hair, holding him there almost possessively.

After her screams of pleasure abated, he moved up her body back to her lips, his own sign of arousal trapped between them, which she devoured hungrily. Robb withdrew slightly, to which Margaery responded by letting her face fall into a pout.

"Are…are you sure you want this?" he asked of her. Her kiss was answer enough, as the smile he could feel her lips had formed. He parted her legs, which moved to wrap themselves around him, and he moved to enter her. Thrusting forwards, they gasped in unison at the feelings thrust upon them. In that moment, they were one.

Jon's POV

The crisp morning air, carrying with it the scent of brine, whipped through Jon's and Ghost's hair as they slowly walked along the beach. Jon couldn't sleep, and instead of finding comfort in a unresponsive Tyene, who detested early mornings, he found it in Ghost and the serenity of solitude. His mind had forgotten the real reason of why they were all in Dorne, the reason for their alliance. He was grateful that they had formed this alliance, for Tyene and Robb and his mother of course, but it also came at a price, for Robb had to leave to try and take back the North from the Bolton's, whilst he would stay here. Yet again, for the sake of honour, he would abandon his brother in his time of need, but he couldn't leave Tyene, for she would allow them to be parted not would she want to bare the harsh winter weather, and nor could he leave his mother, the woman he had been yearning to find for all of his life. Sighing, he turned to Ghost, who was still fascinated by the enigma that was sand.

"What should I do Ghost?" He called out to the white wolf, whom had been rolling in the sand, suddenly jerking upright, staring at him with those deep red eyes. They seemed to be saying everything and nothing. Chuckling at his partners response, he started running along the beach, Ghost running with him, tail wagging, until the wolf found it amusing to crash into him sending them both crashing to the floor. Rolling over and over again, they were interrupted by laughing, Ghost springing up off him. Dusting sand from his hair, causing it to fall in a golden curtain before him, he squinted against the rising sun to find Robb, freshly shaved, standing on the rise above them, Grey Wind running down to play with Ghost, still emerged in laughter. Smiling slightly at his own expense, he stood, dusting sand of his clothes, and slowly walked over to Robb, feet sinking into the softened sand.

"The morning was too good to not enjoy it" Jon jested, moving to stand beside his brother, as they watched the wolves, who were normally torn right from the nightmares of men and children alike, playing like pups in the sand. Robb laughed, and Jon noted that this would be one of the last time he would hear his brother laugh for a long time.

"Aye that it is. Cheer up brother, the morning is far too good to stand there and think of what will happen, we should just be happy, should we not?" Robb said laughing again as he did so. Jon looked moved away to inspect his brother.

"You seem far too happy for one about to go to war. What has happened to you? Is it Margaery?" Jon asked, smirking slightly at the thought of kings and brothers talking about what men their age should be talking about. Robb avoided his eyes and turned an interesting shade of scarlet, all but affirming Jon's question.

"I shall answer that later. Now though," He said, and withdrew a sealed piece of paper from a purse attached to his belt, "this is sure to bring you more satisfaction than any answer I could provide." He finished, offering the now enigmatic scroll of paper to Jon. Taking the scroll, he inspected is, and noted it was sealed with the wax and seal of Stark. Looking up at Robb, who simply smiled in reply, Jon broke the seal and unfurled it. Inside, written upon the paper, were words written in his brothers own flowing handwriting.

"I, King Robb of the house Stark, king in the North and Riverlands, naturalise Jon Snow, into the house of Stark, and name him the heir to Starfall." Underneath this were signatures from several people, but Jon could not read them. He was in shock, the paper slipping from numb fingers. He was no longer Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. No, now he was Jon Stark. He lifted his water filled eyes to Robb, struggling to find his voice.

"How…?" he asked, to which Robb chuckled slightly at whatever Jon's expression must have shown.

"I told Prince Doran, once you and your mother had left to reconnect, and he supplied the information that there was no known of the house Dayne alive, who would be able to inherit Starfall, so I would have permission in naming you its heir." He finished, leaving Jon's throat full of emotion.

Moving forward, he pulled his brother into a hug, laughing slightly as the tears fell onto his hot cheeks, like the last vestiges of his old life being purged from him. Releasing his brother, he moved backwards but clasped Robb's forearm, looking into those bright blue eyes.

"Thank you." He whispered, too overcome with the raw power of emotion this had brought upon him to reply fully, but Robb nodded. He knew, how could he not, what this meant for him. They released each other, Robb smirking slightly as he did so.

"Right, know that you are in my debt, I would have you come with me." He said, calling to Grey Wind who moved to join him.

"Where are we going now?" Jon queried, but Robb smiled, as enigmatic as before, but showing more happiness, beckoned for him to accompany him. Feeling something wet touch his hanging fingers, he looked down to see Ghost, his red eyes looking up at him, searching for something. Jon smiled.

"Come on boy" he said, hand stroking those snow white hairs, crouching to pick up the piece of paper that had changed his life, before jogging to catch up with Robb, and they began the walk back together, friends, brothers…equals.

"Come on" Robb insisted, pulling Jon along with him, through the Water Gardens. Eyeing the surroundings, there seemed to be an air of barely suppressed joy, as though the people moving through the pillar had left their emotions behind them.

Robb pulled him on, rounding a corner, to a guest's room, pausing briefly at the threshold, before turning back to Jon, and smiled, then opened the door. Inside the lavish room, there was a group of people, talking freely until they became aware of Jon or more accurately, Robb as they parted before them. Standing at the end, was what looked like a Septon, dressed in his pristine white robes, and next to him, was Margaery Tyrell. She was dressed in a golden wonder of a dress, with the deepest of red roses swirling in an intricate pattern across the face, but it was her face that Jon was drawn to, for it contained the unbridled happiness that Robb hadn't been willing to share.

"Will you speak for me?" came the whisper from Robb, and the realisation of what they were about to perform hit Jon fully then, and he smiled, nodding his affirmation, and they walked forwards, Jon moving to stand off to one side them next to the Greatjon, towering above everyone else here, and Sansa who looked like she might burst from giddiness, whilst Robb moved to meet his beloved, before the Septon, who shifted slightly at their appearance.

"Greetings one and all. Today we are gathered here to witness the union of two people, Robb of the house Stark, and Margaery of the house Tyrell, in the eyes of god's and men. Who would speak for Robb?" At which point, Robb turned to Jon, eyeing him meaningfully. Jon stepped forwards, wringing his hands nervously by his sides.

"Since he has no father or uncle, I Jon Sn… Stark, shall speak for Robb." His words were meet by a storm of whispers, less of him speaking for his cousin, and more so him naming himself a Stark, but Robb nodded, gratitude etched into his face, as the Septon continued.

"And who would speak for Margaery?" at this point on the other side of the little group of witnesses, Ser Loras stepped forward.

"Since neither her mother nor aunt are present, I Loras Tyrell, shall speak for her." The septon nodded.

"Then will Robb take this women for his wife?"

"He will." Jon replied. The Septon asked the same of Margaery, for which Loras confirmed her decision. The Septon nodded, and withdrew a blanket of something from within his robes

"Then with the acceptance of this coat of arms of house Stark," he stated, and Jon could see it was white with the wolf of Stark embossed, which Margaery moved around her shoulders, with Robb's assistance. The man turned to the small gathering of people.

"Then it is my duty to bind this two people to one another, that they are now man and wife. You may now kiss the bride," He finished, a smile threatening to break through the edges of his façade. As Margaery and Robb move towards one another, and people burst into applause he felt arms wrap themselves around his midriff, and a voice brought into being behind his left ear.

"Stark eh? When did this happen to such a handsome bastard?" a sultry voice emerged through the cheering. Turning, he saw Tyene's face gazing up at his, mischievous sparkle in place, as her arms remained attached to him.

"This morning, before Robb forced me to attend this." Jon said, before smirking down at her. "Are you sure you which to be seen with a highborn now?" Tyene's smile widened and she stood up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

"Of course not. That's why my chambers will be free of people." She said, before withdrawing her arms. Still smiling Jon's eyes strayed upon the happy couple who despite the cheers still happening, only had eyes for each other, to the other members of the crowd, gathered to bare witness to this event; the Greatjon, who was calling bawdy calls for his king; Sansa, tears flowing unrestrained upon her porcelain skin, despite the smile upon those delicate lips; the Prince Oberyn, Observing the proceedings with amusement.

As his eyes travelled further, he chanced upon a pair of amethyst eyes meeting his own, belonging to Dany. She stood alone, save for her bodyguard the loyal, Ser Barristan the bold, but absent of family, for of course now that Aegon had been named and confirmed as heir to the Iron throne, he and Jon Connington were in talks with Doran Martell every waking hour. He smiled to her, a warm smile with happiness from the removal of the bastard status and the current wedding, to which she sent one for him, destroying his in comparison, with the sun reflecting of her white blond hair, tied into an intricate curls, framing her beautiful face. _Beautiful_?

Confused and puzzled oved these feelings he turned back to the happy couple, who were being rushed by the first of many well-wishers, yet he did not see the blush creep across those cheeks nor annoyance creep into those eyes, agitated by circumstance. But he did not see this, and so it went unnoticed.

Robb POV

The boat was waiting for them, at the end of the pier, the same pier that they had disembarked from only days ago. Now he would be leaving a king, a married man, off to try and take back his own lands. The thought sent shivers of anger throughout his being, at the thought of the Bolton's, of Roose Bolton, inhabiting the very seat of power that he had sworn loyalty and obedience to. He will rue the day that he accepted Tywin Lannister's offer, Robb thought as he walked through the crowd of people waiting on the jetty.

"Gods, it will be good to get back to somewhere colder, I'm pissing sweat here." Came the Greatjon's voice from his right shoulder, causing a smile to spread across Robb's face. They may be heading back into now enemy territory, but he wouldn't be alone.

Checking everything was in accordance below, and triple checking their course, he moved above decks, to see the people who held his heart, but would not be making this journey with him. Firstly, was the delicate Sansa, eyes yet again filled with tears but there was no happiness attached to them this time.

"Why Robb? Can't you stay here and live?" She begged of him, once he had pulled her into a hug, clutching at his furs, which would very much be needed on their journey.

"How can we live, if not with Winterfell ours to call home." He replied simply, with which she shuddered slightly before retreating into the arms of one of the Dornish princes, who nodded to Robb as he nodded in response.

Then came Jon. Jon Stark, he thought proudly he they approached one another. Jon seemed hesitant, as he stepped forward.

"The last time we separated ill omens met both of us." He began, but Robb cut him off.

"We are prepared now, they will not take from us a second time." He spoke fiercely, and Jon nodded, before they clasped forearms.

"Hopefully us Starks are as hard to kill as you prophesised." He japed, although an image of his mother and father cam drifting back into his mind, the former throat slit, the latter named a traitor and executed.

"Be safe." The final whisper before Jon withdrew and he was left with one farewell, the hardest. They might have only bound themselves to each other a mere few hours ago, but he felt the pain of their separation, as she must have to. She was still her golden and red rose dress, although it seemed to have reduced in grandeur compared to the real rose stood before him, tears threatening to leave the obscurity of her eyes. He took her hands in his, drew them close to his chest.

"We shall be together soon, then we shall have years for you to berate me for all the foolish choices I will undoubtedly make." He promised, trying to tease, but all he felt was pain. She tried to smile, but it flickered and died.

"I pray to the gods this is true." Moving her hands out from his grasp, she moved them to his cheeks, which were slowly growing their former stubble. She moved towards him, and kissed him. It was such a delicate, chaste kiss, full of unspoken and unneeded promises.

"Please don't leave me alone in this world." She whispered. Those words were so full of hurt and need, that he wanted nothing more to stay and comfort her for however many years it would take, forever if needed. However he nodded, words leaving him, and turned away, eyes skating across the many people gathered here. Across the younger Dornish princess, one moving to comfort Sansa, which brought more happiness than he thought it would, the other eyes flicking between himself and golden haired beauty, whose startling green eyes stared at him with purpose, stood arm in arm next to him. Startling slightly he gazed upon the now known Myrcella Baratheon, the once little girl who had simpered after him in the halls of Winterfell, when they were all but children, but who now regarded him with a sad smile, sorrow dancing across her green eyes. Turning away, towards Prince Oberyn, with Ellaria on his arm, who nodded at him.

"Happy hunting," were his words, as Robb moved away, looking back to whistle for Grey Wind. Looking, he saw Grey Wind and Ghost, at Jon's side, touch noses once, and Robb realised, as Grey wind slowly moved towards him that although they could never talk to one another, there was more said in that simple touch than any human could. Boarding the Wooden ship again he looked across at the last of his friends, and turned away, for it was too painful to bare. Instead he made his way, across the sparse deck to the Greatjon who was looking down upon, itself upon a small rickety table, a map of the North, of his home. Sensing his friend and Liege lord at his shoulder, he turned, laughter having gone from his beard lined mouth.

"So your Grace, what is your plan?" he asked, frowns upon his aged and weary face. Robb looked down upon the map, and smiled, though it was at the thought of the defeat of the accursed Lannister's Bolton's. A mountain of lion corpses would not stop them.

"This is where we start."

A/N as it says in the books, for the people wondering if there are actually any heirs to Starfall living, Eddard dayne was alive when Arya met him, but his fate is uncertain after that, so I'm taking that to mean he's dead. sorry if that disagrees with anyone.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – Preparation makes perfection

Jon POV

 _He was walking through the forest beyond the wall, snow falling around him in a white cascade, trees dusted with the snow like sugar. He stopped staring before him, before moving slowly, approaching the Weirwood tree, the gnarled and ancient thing that it was, face revealed through light, though he could see no source._

" _Jon", the trees with the red tears, slowly moving down its face like tears of blood, whispered to him, in a voice that sounded half familiar, in his shadow infested dream, "Understand….and warn."_

 _He was moved, voluntary or not would have made little difference, through the shadows until he was transported to a new scene, not so calm. This was a battle, or had started as that, as was evidenced by the screams and shouts that reached even his honeyed ears. He stumbled through what appeared to be an army, though which encampment he couldn't discern. Walking through the tents dancing in the pyres, he heard the screams increase in volume, though still honeyed; he saw a man stumble out onto his path, blood spurting out of his armour, of which was hewn apart and broken, the remnants of an arrow lodged there, yet Jon, in his dreamy state, felt only apathy for the man, as he stepped over the man in his death rattles, walking still further into the camp._

 _He came an opening to the tents in the blazing inferno, and witnessed a man in the middle of the clearing, fighting stones, slowly moving around him in mid-air, spear in hands. It looked to Jon as though the man would win, but however times the stones flew at him, and he struck the stones away, there was always one to replace another. Jon watched in baited awe, for this man had fighting skill he would know not, but it appeared he must have made some noise to display his admiration, for the man turned, his face obscured in the shadows of his helm._

" _Run", he hissed at Jon, before turning back to the stones that were twirling round him ever faster._

 _A leather bound hand gripped his, wrenching him around, from his dazed state, and turned him to look at the fearful face of Tyene. Her usual calm, almost coy, demeanour, was broken, replaced by cold undiluted fear. Dirt splattered her armour, blood caking one side of the sandy coloured leather, though he could not tell if it was hers or another, with plated mail, under a leather skirt. Beyond her, he saw the other sand snakes, Obara and the Lady Nym, of norm so poised, now very much like their sister; dirtied, bloodied…afraid. But Jon was not interested, turning back towards the wreath fighting the stones._

" _Run", the man hissed again, and this time, Jon allowed himself to be pulled away from the man by his beloved, darting between the burning tents and men, dying and died alike. Before they disappeared into the obscurity of the chaos, he glanced back. The man was on the floor, knocked down by some unseen force, and the stones were above him, moving between themselves like a shoal of fish muted of colour, but by some unheard command, they fell upon him, and his screams were buried by the stones' mountain-like weight, and Jon saw no more._

The morning after Robb's departure from Dorne was truly the maiden itself, as the sun started to rise towards the heavens. Sun beams, as the sun was rising, were dancing across the clear azure waters in the Gardens, moving up the pink walls, and finding their way through the windows of Jon's room.

The sun beams broke him out of his dream, from his nightmare, tearing his eyes open only for them look upon the brilliance above, causing him to shy away from them. Turning his head, groaning as he did so, and moving to the warm body curled around him, her naked breasts pressed tightly to him. He tried to close his eyes, to enter the world of dreams, of half obscured faces and words whispered in wind, but the sun kept him from that land. Waking fully now, he moved his head up of the silken pillow, content to watch the women sleeping softly next to him. Slowly moving his eyes up from those silken smooth legs, wrapped around own, to her perfectly formed chest, still pressed almost possessively to him, to her face.

Still beautifully elvish in appearance, now relaxed as it never would be in her waking moments, her delicate eyelids closed, obscuring those picturesque cyan eyes. Her cheeks, rosy slightly in the rising heat moved with her breathing, as did her small pink lips, open slightly to reveal her soft tongue, but which he knew to be sharp.

After Robb and the Greatjon and his other men had left the mainland, and as he and ghost were slowly walking back to the Garden's she had rushed him, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

Jon, knowing who it was, laughed heartily, before shaking his head, as they broke apart. She looked him up and down, seemingly searching for something, but there was her smile, ever present upon her face.

"Stark? Now it seems you're finally worthy of me, or will you deign to marry a girl of noble birth, one far better than me? She spoke, japing clearly but there was a hint of uncertainty in those eyes. His kiss had silenced her and those sparks of uncertainty.

Mind coming back to the present, he heard the faint sound of bells radiating from their tower. Moving slowly, so as to not wake his beloved, he tried to inch his way out of their bed. In vain, it seemed, for she moved with him, still soundly sleeping. Sighing slightly, he moved to release himself of her arm, but in doing so, he woke her, for she sighed, moving back into the land of the living. As Jon busied himself with getting his newly owned silks onto his person, he glanced back to see her golden head rising slowly, eyes blinking rapidly.

"Seems a shame to cover such delectable goods," came her voice, rough with sleep, but losing none of the sex, oozing from it. Jon turned away, face burning slightly, and Tyene's giggle told him that she bore witness to the embarrassment.

"The bells have sounded. The war council will be meeting again." Was his explanation, to which Tyene groaned, falling back into bed, with a muffled thumping noise.

"The council meets are boring me. It seems to have lost its fun with the wolves, and roses having left." Jon nodded in affirmation, thinking back to yesterday. The departure of the Tyrells and their guards, quite a number at that, had been surreal, for they were his family members, those bonds of family freshly forged. He had hugged Margaery tightly, saying goodbye to the last piece of Robb that remained here, even though he had barely talked to her. He clasped arms with Ser Loras, having talked to him even less, but it didn't matter. They were family.

"So you will leave me to brave the council members alone?" He teased at her laziness, to which she smiled, her eyes closed in sleep.

"Sleep is more important to me today than your bravery, but I will be waiting for you after, exactly as I am." opening one eye at the silence that followed, she smirked at Jon, who had flushed yet again, as he fixed his breeches, with more effort than was inherently needed. Walking out of the room, to Tyene's laugher, cutely ringing in his ears, he looked down at Ghost, trotting beside him.

"Care to help me with evading the many potholes of women?" Jon asked him, smiling slightly as Ghost stared back at him, pink tongue lolling out amongst the dagger-like teeth. Chuckling, shaking his head, he walked through the fleshy pink columns towards where the many lords and ladies of Dorne were. Like him, moving into the prince's war room, but stopped when he heard his voice called out.

"Jon." Turning around, he saw Dany walking towards him. Her Amethyst eyes sparkling this morning, pale skin glistening in the morning sun. Her smile, wide and happy was as pretty as ever, whilst her hair, was tumbling down one shoulder like a pale gold waterfall. The dress she chose to wear today was a pale cream, falling down her figure like a second skin, accentuating all of her curves, hips swaying to and fro, as she made her way to his side. He smiled at her arrival, though inside he was nervous, excessively so. Why do I feel so? He asked himself. He knew the answer, of course he did, but he buried it deep, as he smiled at her, bowing slightly.

"Your Grace," he japed, smiling widely at her scowl. Ascending back to his normal height, he glanced over her shoulder. The blue haired ghost, Aegon, now with blond hair the length of cut grass, walking arm in arm with the princess, and heir, of Dorne. They certainly looked the part of King and Queen, Jon reflected as he saw Arianne laugh at something Aegon had said whilst the man Jon had listened with bated breath to stories about, Ser Barristan Selmy, walked behind, eyes piercing as they examined him, before turning back at something Dany had said.

"Is the Lady Tyene not joining you today?" she asked, smile in place, although Jon thought it looked rather fixed. Jon smiled.

"She seems to think that sleeping is more important than being involved with taking back Westeros, for some strange reason." He said, still smiling. Dany laughed as well, her soft voice stirring something within Jon.

"Oh, how I long to be able to be able to resist the responsibilities a Queen has." She laughed. "So, since we're both alone, would you accompany me to this council then?" Jon held out his arm, after a hesitation, to which Dany threaded hers through, and they started walking to the chambers.

"Where are your dragons?" Jon asked as they walked slowly under the arches, there shoes echoing off the stone walls and the accompanying laughter of the couple behind them the only noise reaching them. "I haven't seen them around Dorne, not that I'm complaining," he added hastily, "Not ashamed to admit I would be moving very quickly away from them."

Dany laughed, and Jon became entranced, yet again, at the soft musical notes.

"Not many men are brave enough to admit that. But no, they only return to Dorne to sleep, they need food constantly since Doran can't afford to supply all three with the meat they require." She replied smiling.

Jon smiled in return. "You see, this is why being a Stark is superior to being a Targaryen. Our wolves are just as ferocious, and they don't eat half of what a dragon would eat." Dany smirked, looking down at Ghost, who was peering back at her, as though sensing he was the topic of interest, with red eyes full of merry, and tongue poking out from between sabre like teeth. She laughed.

"Yes, the terror of the North they are. I would not like to be one my dragons if they were to fight," she said, giving a warm smile, as they moved through the gardens. "Although, they do look conspicuous surrounded by the sands of Dorne. I would love to see them in the snows of the North, or not as they must be camouflage well, to be sure."

Jon turned to her. "Well, myself and Tyene will of course be journeying back with my siblings to Winterfell, you could accompany us?" he asked smiling as he ran his hand through Ghosts heavy fur.

Dany nodded, concealing the slip in her façade at Tyene's mention, the one tangible barrier stopping her from pursuing him.

"I would like nothing more," she replied, with only slight hesitation, taking hold of his arm and continuing to walk through the gardens, not noticing the piercing blue eyes observing them, or more accurately, her, from a distance. They had been warm, wallowing in the noon day sun, but there was no warmth there now.

"May the best women win," She muttered, fingering the scabbard holding the sliver of steel by her side, as she slowly turned and crept away.

Tyrion POV

"About time," Tyrion thought as he waddled through the dark corridors, running a hand through his pale blond and black hair, the torches light shining off it, assigned to their metal brackets in the wall, providing the only reprieve. His dear father had called a meeting at dawn, for they had much to plan, and less time to put words into action. As he walked the light reflected off his heterochromic, green and black, eyes, scrunched in concentration, as his mind raced through what would happen at this meet.

The Young Wolf and the Rose of Highgarden had been taken within the last moon, and the lion and crown troops had formed a moat like structure around Kings Landing, a sea of red and yellow, the last of the promised Baratheon troops. A promise to their enemies, Tyrion thought, smirking slightly before grimacing as this caused pain to shoot from his scar. It had been many moons since the Kingsguard had turned on him, and yet what little remained of his nose and the scar itself twinges on occasion, for which he cured the man to burn in all of the seven hells.

He moved out of the twisting tunnels of the Keep, towards the great doors into the throne room, his ever loyal lackey Pod, quickly moving behind him, as he approached the gold cloaks ever present on either side of the door. At his approach, they quickly moved to open the door, the ancient doors opening with a sonorous boom, and he stormed past the guards, or as much as his giant form allowed him to.

"Pod, did my dear father say anything before summoning me?" he asked of his squire, without turning instead focusing on the door behind the twisted lump of large swords and larger egos.

"No my lord, he just insisted on your presence at the council." He replied, out of breath slightly, as they ascended the stone steps before the chambers beyond.

And Bron?" he queried, wondering where his sellsword friend had scampered off to, never one to miss a swarm of 'fancy folk' worry themselves silly.

"I've not seen, not heard from him since last week, my lord." Frowning from the answer he received, his mind racing, before moving through the doorway, to the small council chambers beyond that, although there was many a man and women here that didn't belong there, a fair few Tyrion didn't even bother to learn their names. The ones he did know, only a handful were of reassurance to him.

He moved through the mass of people surrounding the oak table, a small gratitude for his height, as he was below them, and their words would not, could not, reach him. Moving through the crowd, he reached the table, which for the purposes of this meeting had more chairs than norm added, one of which stood empty, an invitation if ever there was one. Ignoring the seemingly muteness of the other people seated at his entrance, slowly moved the seat out, steadfast in his deafness of the scrapings it caused. Moving carefully to seat himself on the chair, he studied all of the others.

Most of the others were loyal followers of his father, such as his Uncle Kevan, who nodded when his eyes fell upon him. Most others kept their eyes averted, apart from his loving Nephew Joffrey, who was no doubt voicing oh so many insults at him, but it was the last two who meet his gaze. His oh so loving sister, smiling sweetly at him, though that was purely for others. The fair skin, the golden hair, the slender figure, all of her would have lured you in and held you there, were it not for the eyes. Brilliant green eyes, full of ice and loathing, meant for none but him.

"Good morning everyone, a thousand pardons for my tardiness, I didn't think I was important enough to hold up the war council, but alas I am present now." After giving his sister a wide grin, he turned his eyes to the last person at the table, the most important, no matter the King sat not ten paces away. Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Lannisport. His lines surrounding his hard line of a mouth, his gold flecked eyes, everything about him speaks volumes of age, of tiredness.

"Why, father, you look too old for yet another war, you sure someone else shouldn't take command?" he said, smirking.

His father's eyes, seemed to say all the words he wanted to, but his voice said none of these instead he turned to Kevan.

"What is the situation now that the Rose of Highgarden, and the Young wolf escaped?" he whispered, and although his words carried sound and weight in the room, Tyrion could hear the anger threatening to spill over. He sat up slightly.

"Well, as far as our reports say, they were abated by the Red Viper, so it natural to assumer, the Dornish have joined forces with the Tyrells, the Starks, the Tully's, as well as the self-proclaimed Queen Daenerys and all of her Golden Company and Unsullied … all of our ravens, sent to Dorne and Highgarden alike, have returned empty of explanation or reason" He gave a long sigh.

"As of right now, we must bare the knowledge that they are in open rebellion against the crown." Mutterings followed this, and spread throughout the surrounding people like wildfire. Tyrion chose instead to study his family; Joffrey looked angry, a child that didn't get their way, despite being a man grown now; Cersei was clenching her jaw, the smooth, silken skin rippling slightly under her jaw muscles, and Tywin…. His face might have been carved in stone for all the emotion he showed to that statement, only yielding a nod to his brother. As the people around ceased their useless yammering, Tyrion spoke up.

"Forgive me dear sweet sister, for I am ignorant of such matters, but why in seven hells would you keep the Young wolf alive? He would only prove to be a figurehead to be rescued if words got out, as evidence shows, it fucking well did, so what purpose, Cersei?" he ended, with a smile so sickly sweet, it might have been dipped in sweet sugar.

Cersei in turn, clenched her jaw, but it was Joffrey, the boy King that answered.

"He was supposed to be executed the very day that he escaped, and I would have gifted his head to your late wife," He sneered. Tyrion sighed.

"Of course you did. So, what does Your Grace, suggest we do?" Joffrey in turn turned a nasty shade, turning to his mother, who flipped one of golden trails of hair from one shoulder and answered for him.

"We kill them all, of course. We did so before and we will do so again. We have nothing to fear from traitors," she finished, many of the sheep in human skin, giving cheers to support her.

A laugh, long and slow, rich in irony emanated from the hall, everyone turning to look at Tyrion, who was laughing a deep belly laugh, although it not reaching his eyes.

"Cersei, if you have thought, do so again. We are the Targaryen's, they are the start of the next 'Robert's Rebellion'. Hells, the son of Ned Stark is leading the Northern army, the other players have changed, but we will not win this by simply 'killing them all. We will have to be smart than simply trying to 'kill them'. They have far more men than us, and in a better position to attack."

Silence followed his words, which seemed far longer, until it was broken by the last person he thought would support him. Tywin leaned forward.

"Loathe as I am to admit it, He's right, and only a fool would think otherwise. History seems to laugh in our faces sometimes. Bearing that, we have the crownlands, the Westerlands and the Riverlands, or the majority of that, and the Bolton's, so wherever the Young Wolf lands, he will have to bring the fight to them in order to take back Winterfell. Now," he turned to his brother, fingers stroking through his golden bristles as he did so.

"We cannot stand to face the Dornish and whatever forces the Targaryen girl has brought on one side, and the Northern and remainder of the Riverlands army on the other, should the Bolton's and Frey's fall. We will need to raise a second army, I trust you to do this, brother." His brother nodded, the fat in his chin folding slightly, and he rose, hand finding his brother's fleetingly before walking through the mass beyond the table, not even having to evade any, for they moved aside, all of them. HE bares the command of my father, Tyrion thought scathingly, turning back to the leader, sitting at the head of the table with the King to his left.

Silence for a moment before Tywin spoke again.

"Contact the Bolton's and Frey's. They are as entwined with us in this, as much as anyone else. Tell them what has transpired, they will need to have preparations made." Another man of the table hastened to obey. This time, he turned his eyes upon Tyrion.

"You were rather adept at saving the city last time." He started, and the shock that flitted across most faces, the anger that wove itself across Joffrey's and Cersei's, had him forcing a grin off his disfigured face.

"Nice of you to remember that, father." He quipped. Tywin ignored him.

"Likely as not, this city will fall under siege yet again. You will prepare as best you can, with what pithily resources remain to you, but one thing." And his eyes went from hard grass, to jade, in the time it took to blink.

"That whore, the one that I distinctly remember telling you to rid yourself of before you arrived here. You will rid yourself of her, now, as soon as this meet is adjourned, or there will be a repeat of the last women I disapproved of." Laughter followed this, laughter and humiliation, as everyone looked on, laughed on. Tyrion sat still, eyes never left his father's, locked in a staring match, match of wills, never willing to back down. After a while, Tyrion looked away, turning to leave his chair.

"Well, since you've shown your superiority, embarrassing your stunted and disfigured son, our enemies will have no chance," he said walking away, Pod in tow, the sound of laughter still ringing in his ears, long after it had subsided.

"Oh, and where's your other son, my much better brother? I don't see him jumping to stab me in the back, seeing as I'm such a monster for being with a woman," He asked, turning around slightly, brow raised slightly.

Tywin shifted in his chair, and whilst doing so, Tyrion saw his eyes flicker towards Cersei, who in turn clenched her hands around the chalice that she was holding, knuckles turning the colour of snow doing so.

"He has his part to play in this, as do we all." was all his lord father felt was needed to reply. Snorting slightly, Tyrion walked away, mind churning.

Firstly, there was a very good chance that his head would up on a spike, by the time the year was up, finally equal to his siblings and father. The Young Wolf may have lost the last time he rebelled, but that was a mistake of his own making. This time around, Tyrion guessed he would not make that mistake again, if was not already married to the Rose of Highgarden. The time spent together, in a black cell, would do that, and the Queen of Thornes would see that they would benefit from this, one way or another.

"Pod…Where's Shae? I have to tell her, that by my Lordly fucking father, she has to leave Kings Landing. Make sure, before you find her, you visit the armoury, I feel I may be in need of some protective clothing."

Robb POV

"When we land in White Harbour, we leave in pairs," the Greatjon was saying, leaning over the faded map they were all studying. The boat journey, back to the North, his home, was slow in its movements. The only advantage this had, was that it allowed time enough to plan. And they plan they had.

"Where are we to meet? I doubt we will be able to stroll through the city," Robb observed, stood to the Greatjon's left staring down at the streets, and more importantly the keep, where his father's friend, and more importantly, enigmatic enemy numbers. He laughed in response, turning to his liege lord.

"Don't worry Your Grace, I have something in mind for you, and Grey Wind too, that will allow you to slip as easily through the city, as a knife through butter" his eyes flicking to the beast, now so docile in the corner, coolly observing the proceedings.

"Good," was Robb's simple response. His friends were just as involved with this as he was in this. If this worked they would have everything they had, and more, but if they lost….Robb couldn't think of that, the consequences would be too dire.

"What…what is the plan, _once_ we have taken Winterfell?" Robb asked, such a straight forward question, yet he didn't have answer for it.

"We slowly make our way down the Neck, reconnecting with the rest of our soldiers tied up in the Brotherhood without Banners, such as your uncle, Brynden the Blackfish," Greatjon replied, smiling slightly, "They helped to break me out, so they will have been causing trouble for old late Frey, to be sure. And then," that grin turned rueful, and he directed more for Robb then at the table, "We try and take the Westerlands, which shouldn't be hard, what with your old Queen, Jeyne." Robb stared at the table. Of course he had not forgotten, but yet again, he had no answer.

"Everyone, please excuse us," He said, voice of steel, and around him he could hear murmurs of "Your Majesty", as people moved towards the door, leaving him and his friend together, with the giant yellow eyes of his partner watching them.

"Jon…," Robb sighed, turning towards him, "I don't know what to do,"

"Nothing to be done, Robb, "the reply came, and Robb felt a giant weight, perhaps his hand, upon his shoulder, "By all the gods, you've married Margery. She, by law, is a Stark, your wife, your Queen. You valued your honour last time… well, honour your wife this time. You need not, meet her again if you so choose."

Robb nodded. Of course he would honour his wife, but he would take the cowards way, and choose to avoid her. Turning around in the wooden cabin, he laughed.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I would give several gold dragons to the thought that, somehow, Margaery's placement in my cell was pre-meditated and planned by the Queen of Thornes. That sounds easily done, for someone with her influence, to be sure." Greatjon laughed, a deep booming noise.

"You can never know what that bitch has planned, nor any other woman. You can only hope that whatever they have planned for you, bares fruit of a sweetened taste."

A/N Sorry about the long time between updates, due to rather a large amount of Assignments. Also, hopefully this will persuade some of you, that this isn't purely Jon/Tyene, nor will it stay that way #spoiler's .Anyway, hope you all like it, and reviews are welcome.


	10. Chapter 10- A wordless message

Chapter 10 – A wordless message

 _As Robb thrust his hips forward, his senses aflame, he looked down at the woman below him, the catalyst of his euphoria, his heart. Her cheeks were flushed, her rose petals lips parted and her breathe moving through in small aphrodisiac pants, and her silken legs wrapped tightly his naked waist, proving no means of escape, even if he wished it. Her arms were likewise wrapped around his neck, threaded into his hair, his face close to hers, allowing him to look upon her eyes, to really see. Those warm brown eyes, looking at him with such lust, he could see, in the depths, pride, at being the only one who would make him feel this way._

 _He leaned his head forward, still moving his hips into her, stealing a kiss from her as he did, or it would if she didn't give it willingly, muffling her moans, their tongues battling for dominance during the rocking motion of their bodies. Breaking the kiss, he could feel his end nearing. Lifting his head, he thrust quicker, amplifying both their moans as he put his entire being into moving himself inside her. He moved once more, rearing his head back and…_

Gasped awake, the gentle background noises tuned out as he focused on his dream that was quickly slipping from his mind, like water through his fingers. He chuckled.

"That night still echoes in my mind," He said, smirking, turning, to see only pillows and furs, no comforting presence he had been expecting. Staring for but a moment, his mind clicked with remembrance. Swallowing back his anguish, he punched the pillow, denting its soft surface as he fell back against his own. Of course, he remembered, my wife, my Margaery Stark, is still journeying to the Reach, almost a kingdom away. Already he longed for the moment when she would fill the gap in his heart and mind, filling the silence that followed with more pleasant memories of the two of them.

A knock came upon the door to his cabin, shaking the mottled wood and him out of his daydream.

"Your Grace, we can see White Harbor upon the horizon." A voice, rough with the morning, called through the door.

"Thank you." He returned, moving himself out of the tranquillity of the furs and onto the cold floor. Walking to the window, he looked out upon the azure landscape, twisting upon itself.

After getting dressed, Robb slowly made his way onto the deck, a maze of thick salt sprayed ropes, moving people and shouting orders that had taken days to acclimatise to. Walking through the swaying jungle, he walked up to the brow of the boat, observing the horizon, as White Harbor came ever closer. He had yet to travel to the harbour city, as the heir to the North or as the King, but the fluttering of a new city was downtrodden by the imminent violence that would occur. The Manderly's were as loyal to the Stark's as any, but that would mean there would be men stationed at White Harbor, and that would present the need for careful planning.

Running a hand through his auburn hair, he realised what must become him if their second rebellion was to succeed. Sighing, he was interrupted from the woes of self-inspection by the sound of heavy footfalls behind him.

"Fuck the gods, I will never be gladder to have stable ground below my feet." The Greatjon's voice filled the air, as he and the other men moved to stand with their king. After inspecting the horizon, he turned to Robb, mouth, set in a hard line, not even his humour breaking through the sombre moment.

"What's the plan?" Robb thought, for but a moment, before he chuckled slightly, the merriment easily cutting through the tension.

"Manderly loves his food does he not? Jon, what do we have to tempt his silence?" he turned to his friend, whose mind was turning to his way of thinking, and smiling his fearsome smile.

"Trout, Your Grace. Trout." Robb laughed a deep full laugh he hadn't used in years it seemed. Looking back at his men, he smiled his smile in return.

"Then let us begin."

Wyman POV

It had been a long while since had had to walk anywhere, the litter relieving him of that duty, but needs must, and he wouldn't suffer the shame of a litter to the lavatory. Slowly heaving his weight from one foot to the other, he walked down the darkened corridor towards his court, breathing heavily as he moved so. The Doors were sparse in bedecked jewels, but populated in illustrations of mermen and warriors of honour ages past. There once was a time that the younger Wyman would have remembered them, drunk on honour and riches, until life taught him to different.

Moving slowly through the aged wood of the doorway, the men standing on either side of them announcing him, he took his time surveying his court this morn, mummers farce in play with his simple, fools smile upon his lips. There was the always present, merchants and blacksmiths, farmers guards, but his eyes were drawn, as ever they were, to the sons of the Twins, as present as greyscale to be sure, if the wide birth the other members of his city gave them. There were three of then, as weasel like as their sires, all wearing their colours of deepest blue and palest grey, but it was their mouthpiece, the man in their middle that took his interest, as sickening as it was.

Rheagar Frey, the man named after the dragon, in worms clothing looked like the shadow of his namesake's shadow, as he stood before him, greasy smile fixed in place, greying hair receding from his shining forehead, he stood, hand upon pummel of sword, despite disgusted looks. They had supped upon salt and bread the only the night before, but Wyman paid it no mind, they would all die soon enough, he whispered throughout his mind, lending itself to his fools smile.

Slowly lowering himself into his large supported chair, he heaved a heavy sigh at completing the ever exerting, yet menial walk to his throne. Turning to his Maester, who hands in abundance of scrolls, he laughed lightly.

"Maester, who's to be seen first today?"

Many hours passed in tenuis tranquillity, both the Lords and Ladies, as well as the common people behaving as they would any other court session. But movements were stilted, tongues weren't as forthcoming lest they give something away to the worms in their flayed skin shields. Wyman, who had scarcely time to consume a horn of ale, was looking forward to the break, and the food that would come with it to be sure, when the Frey men stepped forward.

"Wait but a moment, Lord Manderly, we have a need to discuss your support for the Warden of the North, Lord Bolton." Aegon announced, and the tentative peace within the court was broken, as the invited guests.

"But of course, as soon as my son Wylis returns then we shall discuss all of the peace accords that the Warden of the North has us make." This was a stalling turn, at the best, for the Frey's were many things, but none had yet to call them patient.

"The Lord of Winterfell would have you make them now," Rheagar's voice grew in anger, his hand tighten upon the black wood of his pommel. His eyes flickered to Wyman's Granddaughters stood nearby, even the dutiful girls, but the smile upon the Frey's lips allied themselves with his fears.

"I and the Little Walder, currently residing in Winterfell will marry your Granddaughters," he began that smile ever present upon his greedy lips, his eyes flicking back to the Lord before him. "And you, my Lord," he spoke, taking a step forward, "will take a Frey for a bride."

Silence followed, as each and every pair of eyes watched and waited with breathe yet to pass their lips, waiting for their Lords response. Indeed, it wasn't a thought that had occurred to him, but it was an easily circumvented detail in their plan.

He waited but a moment, then smiled a wide smile, raising his arms invitingly.

"I expected nothing less, Frey, my granddaughters and I would be more than willing to take Frey's as our partners of mind and heart." The men and women greeted this in the granite of stony silence, with only his youngest granddaughter, Wylla, her of pretty face, small bust and bright green braided hair, who stepped forward.

"The Frey's murdered our King, why not marry yourself to the Bolton's or Lannister's, the one's you birthed this disgusting plan?!" Her small, delicate hands were trembling, such was her rage, but her older sister, Wynafryd, moved forward, taking one of those small hands in her own, to help calm.

"Be still sister, the Frey's aren't bad, it was the Young Wolf who betrayed us all, we are lucky to have such brave, handsome men to have protected us from him," she finished, her eyes flicking to the Rhaegar, fluttering her lashes at him. His Brave Wynafryd, the perfect mummer, he thought, as Wylla, calmed herself, though her expression of deepest loathing didn't ease itself from her delicate features.

"Now, with that put to bed, let us," He started, projecting his voice to all, before being interrupted.

My Lord," Called Maester Theomore, as he moved to hi liege, quicker than was normal. His mind whirring through reasons, he looked into his Maester's eyes, and saw something, some worry but some hope. The man had something in his arms, something during his distance travelled, but become visible as he moved to stand at Wyman shoulder. He could now see the letter and, what looked to be a Trout, his scales shining with water running down it, eyes looking out but seeing nothing. The Maester handed the fish first to him, holding it in such a way, that all of the guests could only see the side facing them, not the one facing Wyman, and it was this one that held his breathe. Dug deep into the scales, was a pin of silver, showing the Direwolf of Stark.

"This Trout and others like it, were caught this morning, my Lord, my thinking was to have the Frey's taste our Northern style of fish before they leave on the morn," Theomore spoke in a carrying voice, but spoke volumes to the Merman, whose eyes flickered to him. His hands were shaking slightly, but otherwise his poise spoke of loyalty, for he had seen the pin, he knew. He then coughed, handing the letter to him on this nervous hands. He unfurled the seal less scroll and read. Finishing the scroll, wrapping it again in his fatty, sausage hands, he turned to the other man, his mummer's face the picture of hospitality.

"Of course Maester, but tell me, how many of our men would be able to create such a special dish?" He asked of him.

"All of them will try to recreate it from memory, my Lord," he answered, eyes speaking volumes. Turning to the Frey's, whom were looking greedily at the Trout they saw, he called out to all.

Well, seeing as we have now more than an abundance of fish, I invite all here to partake of the feast we are to have tonight, as long as the Lord Frey does not mind?" he asked of the men, eyes flicking between themselves, before shrugging, mind leaping ahead towards the food.

"No mind, Lord Manderly, no mind."

"Wynafryd, would you be able to oversee this important meal?" he asked of her. He loved her dearly then, for she knew, of course she knew that the letter was more than fishermen, and didn't give a sound of dissent, as she walked forward, blue dress shimmering across the floor.

"Grandfather, why must Wyn oversee this? She's a Lady of White Harbor, not a servant," came the angry response from Wylla. Wynafryd turned in a whirl of golden hair to respond, oft soft eyes, hardened towards her blood.

"Be quiet, sister. This is an important meal, and better I find out the tastes of my future husband now." Sending a coy smile to Rhaegar, she moved to the Throne, taking the fish carefully, keeping the pin of the wolf close to her bosom, whilst taking the letter, with the other.

Reading quickly through the instructions, she smiled a ghost of a smile, and a dip of her head in affirmation.

"I believe I can help organise this." She smiled, leaving the room, down the stairs, towards the servants, away from the masses above, before the smile turned to laughter.

Robb POV

Pacing through the room as he had done so many times before, his legs aching from usage, he slowly looked out of the curtains onto the people below. Seeing not a single set of eyes returning his gaze, he turned to strike up his pacing, but Greatjon's voice interrupted him.

"For our sake Robb, best not ware through the floorboards. Us falling through to the bottom of this thrice pissed upon house, may raise an inquisitive eye." He sighed in response, grimacing slightly, as he turned, moving towards one of the seats that wasn't claimed, by man or by mould.

"I know Jon, it's just," he ran a hand through his ruddy auburn beard, that the journey North had provided. "I dislike this waiting. Any number of obstacles could rear their ugly head, whilst we're here, wearing the floor away." The Greatjon chuckled at that, leaning back, the chair seeming puny in scope compared to the giant of the man astride it. He looked across the room at Grey Wind, who seemed to have fallen into his dreams, the pile of light fur rising and falling gently, as his face, so gentle in sleep, twitched, reacting to whatever he dreamt of. A moment of silence fell upon them, in which the deep breathing of his wolves became background noise, before Robb, looking up, broke it.

"If this goes according to plan, what is for us after White Harbor?" his deep blue eyes, spoke of a delicacy, borne of the failure last time. "Whom do we even trust?"

Greatjon, moved forward, arms solidified with muscle, resting upon his thighs as he looked at Robb, really looked at him.

"We take this city, then we go to mine own castle, Last Hearth, sending ravens to all the other houses, that their King has returned. They'll come so quickly, they'll be many a bastard to have," he finished, a quiet laugh. Robb looked at him, assessing what his reaction.

"Jon told me….he told me that there was an army of wildlings south of the Wall, that he himself had allowed through, that would help fight for us, if we but help them free from Castle Black" Robb said, over the now frozen look he was receiving. The man sat there, thinking for several minutes to be sure, before responding.

"They are known to be fierce fighters. Aye, it might make them hate you, Your Grace," and he smiled now, "But I would wager that they would hate the Bolton's and Lannister's more. And I reckon they won't, not with two Starks protecting them"

Laughing, his mind quickly reminded him who he was facing, and where.

"How do we attack Winterfell?"

"We don't lad, we wait for the Bolton's to come to us, that monster bastard of his, and he has the temper, the ferocity, but no brains to plan where his wroth aims at next. We can catch him with his trousers down, and shove our swords so far up his bunghole, he'll be able to lick the blood off them."

"Which other Houses have thrown themselves in with the flayed man?"

"Karstark's, though that shouldn't surprise. They betrayed you, killed Lannister boys; The Bolton and Frey alliance is their final roll of the dice. Bastards all of them, I wish I'd killed more of them when they turned on us at Edmure's wedding, or at least taken another ear of Leslyn Heigh." Robb nodded, remembering.

"No unseen circumstances, we should hold the numbers, Northmen, wildlings and the Northern clans, against the traitors," Robb spoke, seemingly more for his benefit than anyone else.

Looking down at his hands, at the ring placed upon his finger.

 _Before he left Dorne, Margaery had all but dragged him back to their rooms. Closing the door, she had rushed to seal his lips to hers, her delicate hands steel-like in their grip upon his robes._

 _Parting, more due to reluctance to suffocate than reluctance itself, he chuckled into her pale skin at her neck, loving the way she shivered, though in Dorne it was never cold._

" _Margaery, though I yearn to stay, I have to leave now, or I fear I will be stuck with you forever," he whispered, smirking at her, and receiving a smirk in return._

 _I know, but before you becoming ensnared in my rosy embrace, I would have you wear this," she said, pulling a ring from her neck, where it had hung on a chain of shining steel._

" _Mag," Robb started, to object to be sure but was unable to voice, what was surely an attempt at honour, due to his wife's lips upon his own, again._

" _Yes, you will. It was my fathers, it was mine, and now it is ours," She spoke, words bursting of emotion, as he examined it. Made of whitened gold, leaving Robb marvelled that the Reach had such control over metals, on its side, whose purpose was to face to the heavens, a small but opening rose, its petals changing from a pinkish hue, to the edge of the petal, capped with a dusky gold. It was beautiful._

" _It's just, in my darkest moments, I would have you something to remind other women that you are taken by the wolf that now smells of Roses." Robb smiled, knowing of what she was thinking, no matter what her words said._

" _My father met Lady Ashara at Harrenhal, before my father was betrothed or married," he said smiling at Margaery's fluster. Moving forward, he touched his forehead to hers._

" _Wherever I am, I have my wolf awaiting me after."_

Smiling at the memory, until he cursed himself. Now was the worst of times to be immersing himself in those happiest of memories.

"When were you married, Jon?" he asked, a nervous smile creeping across his face, as man opposite began to laugh, the deep booming laugh that he knew so well, even people through the yellow glazed windows, had they stopped to listen would have had their ears rewarded with that laughter.

"Many years ago, before you were even a glint in your father's eye," He replied, chest still heaving with mirth. "Aye, my wife was a shy one, she was, when I first saw her before the weirwood, walking towards me in white, arm upon her father's. Blushing and avoiding my gaze, she looked as fetching as the maiden herself. But, given enough time, shared words and fucking, she became a fierce woman. She loved me, cared for our children, and looked after the Last Hearth along with nuncles, Whoresbane and Crowsfood. And baring any interference from the gods, I'll see her before the next moon is up, they owe me that." This was the only time that he saw another side, a quieter side, almost seeming the mummery compared to his normal larger than life persona. His sad line of a mouth swallowed by the greying of his beard. Looking up, he saw Robb's melancholic look.

"Robb, don't get bloody soft on me, now. I am in this till the end, you know this. But you," he said, and the soft malleable metal had turned to cold steel in his eyes, "Must be more than you were. You've been given a second chance. There won't be a third. We hold every oath, we kill every enemy, we leave no one alive to hold that last spark of revenge .When we return to the North, be it a year, be it two, and we do it with no remorse, so we don't have to pick up the sword once again."

Robb absorbed this, face showing none of the storm brewing upon his mind. How could he not, when those words, already infused with power, carried with them, the weight of his most loyal bannerman. He had been weak before, Copper itself; looking the part of King, and yes, he'd won every battle, but when it came to passing judgement, to being the very thing his bannermen had raised up to be, he had broken upon himself, his greenness. This time…this time, he wouldn't be his Ancestor, Torrhen Stark, and the King who knelt. No, no this time, he already had his wife, he was green no longer.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door to their room. Swinging inwards, one of their men passed through, grim faced, sword on belt.

"It's time, m'lord."

Turning he began to move out of the doorway. The Greatjon moving to follow him, Robb crouched down before placing a steady hand on his wolf's head. The eyes, those hypnotic yellow eyes opened without a flicker of sleep in them, focusing upon his friends face

"Time to go, boy," he whispered before standing back up, Grey Wind rushing to follow. Down the narrowed, twisting flight of stairs, the noise of the city swirling around them all the while. Moving into the front room, where the rest of their men were waiting, all as on edge as the first.

"So,' Robb began, all insecurities gone, or hidden before his men rather, "How are we to gain entrance to the Castle?" One of his men, a boy younger than him, with a scar whiter than snow stretching across one cheek, leaned towards the map they had in the centre of the room.

"With respect Your Grace," he started stuttering over his words, such was his nerves. "We can't take Grey Wing with us. We can hide in the castle in armour or in rooms, but they would recognise him anywhere."

Robb looked down at the manifestation of his house and nodded.

"I will need one of you then to stay here, keep watch over him." One of the older men, Osmund, long hair so dotted in grey it looked to be dark snow, stepped forward, nodding. Robb nodded at his affirmation.

"So we war simple clothes, have armour underneath in case the worst happens, and we are discovered in our ruse. Let it not be said that I have no confidence in Manderly's loyalty, but there will be many ears and eyes, and we have not a clear picture which ears and eyes are full of Lannister gold. If….if we are caught, and killed, then you ser, will take Grey Wind away to the Reach to my Lady wife…. She'll need protection," He finished simply, the very thought of leaving her, sobering him. Osmund nodded, eyes twitching to the wolf who stood resolutely by Robb's side, no matter the partner of his life's words.

"So now that the sad shit is out of the way of tonight's plan, what now?" Greatjon's deep voice cutting through the melancholic moment.

"Now," Robb turned to look at him then moved to the window, looking through it as the sun was starting to become lost to the horizon. "Now, it is all down to Wyman Manderly."

Wyman POV

The Great Hall was packed, every person louder than the next, up and down the benches, the many colours of his people's clothing, glittered, along with the reflective glint of the horns and flagons, filled to the brim with wine. There had been many a course served, eels, and swordfish seabass a plenty, yet they had but served as distractions before the main course of the night.

Wyman looked about the hall, in between the twisting, laughing bodies, observing, whilst still showing that rich open fools smile, upon his learned lips. The Frey soldiers, garbed in their baggy, rat-like armour, jeering at those of their ilk who had women upon their laps and were reaching in those realms of pleasure upon their person, whilst frisking the skirts of any women unwise enough to wade into their midst. The people of White Harbor were more reserved in their frivolity, though no less joyous about it, cheering, laughing and drinking along with all of the others, save a few. He did not drink of course, his wits were the only weapon he possessed, trapped inside his fatty prison, but his eyes fell upon the others who didn't and there were but a few.

Wynafryd with the Rhaegar Frey, sitting upon his lap and flirting, the likes of which she wouldn't never take account of sober, whilst he had yet to see her actually partake of any alcohol. Wylla was another, but hers was no mummery, for she was seated next to her sister and the Frey, sitting sullenly and saying not a word, staring around, and seeing not a thing for her pleasure. He hoped that later would remedy that, as he could ill afford to comfort her in front of any of the people around his castle for fear of the words, carried on wind to Frey or Bolton ears.

A noise drew him, through the cacophony of merriment assaulting him, to a Guard moving through light green doors opposite him in the cavern light room. The man was young, fresh bodied and small of beard, yet his eyes spoke wisdom as he slowly walked to his liege lords table, to better evade unwanted eyes. Approaching Wyman's table, doffing his head in respect, he leaned into the Merman's ear.

"They have entered m'lord, all of them. They stand with us outside in simple clothes and mail to evade suspicion, and shall enter with us, when commanded." Wyman, turned his head slightly, his eyelids fluttering of a wink, as conformation of this, before shouting jovially,

"Before you brave the cold streets again, I insist on a mouth of Arbor Gold to warm you steps, soldier." The soldier looked at him, wheels of his mind turning, before cracking a bright smile of party and understanding, stooping to quash a mouthful of the sweet wine into himself before bowing and retreating to the doors. Wyman slowly got to his feet, through the use of his hands heavily placed on the table, raising his goblet as he did so, using his knife to ring a clear note through the festivities.

"My lords, ladies and other guests, we have no doubt had our fill of wine and food," he began, smiling as several of the Frey crowd jeered at his words, "But we have but one more serving of food, and it by far the best, bias to be sure."

At that, and a wave of his hand, the doors opened, and servants streamed through the doors, carrying vast plates, rested on each, was a magnificent trout, each stuffed with vegetables and herbs, along with vats of Dornish wine to follow. Above the great cheer, at the sight of their food, the Frey's had moved towards the tables the fish were being laid upon, Rhaegar and his two shadows hastening to join him. Wynafryd, spurned aside by the prospect of better entertainment, picked up her own cup, lifting it to her lips, but not before flicking her eyes towards him, raising an immaculate eyebrow slightly, before looking away again. Wyman's cup sang again, and eyes turned from the wine, of which they had immersed themselves in.

"My lords, before you sink into the very best of fish and wine, I would offer you one more gift,' he said, waving his hands to the people standing to the outside of the rooms. 'Since, you'll be leaving at dawn on the morrow, I would present my gifts, of palfreys, before you all. Since you are to be marrying a northern wife Rhaegar, it seems fair you are learned in the North itself, from Brandon the Builder, all the way to now,' The Frey's smiles of mirth were moving of their faces, replaced by scarcely concealed anger, as the weighty books, bound in ageing leather, were placed in front of the guards and lords alike, but Wyman was not finished, to be sure. 'The Starks have ruled all of that time, from the Builder of the Wall, to Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, the boy king, who you Frey's, with great honour and bravery, killed him and his men. Raise your cups, my friends, to the honour and bravery of Frey's!" His cry carried across the room and whilst the crowd of the people downed their wines, the Frey men looked mutinous, no more so, than the Dragon himself, Rheagar, stormed to his feet, anger upon his face, hand upon his pommel.

"You go too far, Manderly! He turned traitor, and when he reached the Twins, he turned savage, it was all we could to put down the mad dog, before he turned his savagery on all of us. I will not have our family's honour questioned by you, Lord Lard, a man who struggles to wipe his arse, let alone swing a sword."

The hall rang with his words, for there was no other sound, save the laughter of the off Frey, as the people of White Harbor stared at their Lord, who smiled back at them, though this smile spoke of more than insult.

"Why, Lord Frey, you should learn boundaries yourself. And knowledge. For one, I've heard whispers of a tale that says the Young Wolf lives, that you spared his life. Yes, I may be fight, and this body may have become my prison, but a man's cleverness will always win out over his brawn," as he said this, his finger, wrapped around his own glittering cup, rose and feel once against the polished metal. His Master-at-arms, Ser Martyn, started walking, his armoured feet falling heavily, as he moved towards the Frey's. the men of the Twins, intent upon their wounded pride over an insult, were deaf to his movements and Wyman's smile turned cold.

'For even if a wolf has lost his fangs to age, the others of the pack will rise to take his place."

As he finished this, Martyn loosed his sword, intent etched into the steel, as it swung through the air, to land in the oaken table with a heavy thud. Silence for but a moment, then the pained screech of Jared Frey, as he moved backwards of the bench, clutching his bloodied stump, the fountain of blood staining his furs whilst his ringed hand lay for all those to see, still clutching his cup.

The echoes were the only noise. Echoes, heavy breathing and the clank of their armour. The light of the torch being carried by a guard before them was getting smaller in significance as the light flirting from the stairs before them loomed. The mist that formed from their forced breaths was whipped apart as they hurried on, through the light, and began to climb the stairs.

The Frey's were merry, they were joyous, and they were unprepared for the people of White Harbor to fall upon them. Wyman stood, leaning and panting to equal weight, as his people, his glorious people, moved with deadly purpose. All along the tables, where there had once been merriment, there was struggle and pain.

His baker, full of laughter, had stabbed one man in the groin, the man falling to his knees will a pitiful squeal, his hands gripping the blade that was lodged within him. He almost felt for the man, as the baker slowly dragged the knife from balls up, his innards painting the floor below, until the metal lodged itself in bone. But his mind turned to his son, killed in treachery thrice as bad, and his heart turned to stone once more, as he looked away, roving over the room before him.

Most of the men tried to alieve their swords free of scabbards, but bar one all were stopped, knifes punched into sides, ears and eyes, everywhere his people could reach, anywhere that would sing the song of revenge. The one man, who managed to pull free his steel, cut his kennel master across the belly, before the other fell upon him, hacking with renewed anger, as the lord of dogs, bled out, clutching his innards.

Jared Frey lay where he had fallen, stab wounds so frequent in his chest that he looked a bloody toad-in-the-hole, his eyes seeing no mirth in this, seeing nothing. Symond moved when his brother had screamed, hand moving to his own pommel before Ser Martyn, removing his sword from Jared's chest, turned, his blade spinning with him. The blade had parted flesh and bone, as the head fell upon the already bloody floor, body with it, still clutching at life, twitching slightly.

Only Rheagar stood still, his eyes wide, looking around at the room but seeing nothing, his hand frozen, inches away from his own metal as he watched his brethren and men fall around him. But he was not to be spared. His guards were dying or dead, so there was none to stop Wynafryd, her smile belaying effort, moving forward, her skirts fanning out behind her, as she took her own knife, and cut the last standing Frey legs out from under him.

The guards quickly moved to open the doors before them, the old doors scarcely making a sound, such was their oiled hinges. He nodded to the guards, who dipped their heads in return, as they flew through the doorway, for they would not let up their pace. They would not be denied this. This hall lead to the large door themselves that he had seen in another life, one filled with innocence and happiness.

That was gone, turn asunder, and this was all that was left, as they guards before this one rushed to perform the same duty. These doors, though massive in structure, yielded the same results, for even the peoples in the great hall were ignorant of his present.

The room had been set for a feast, with cups of wine and food aplenty, but something had gone wrong, for there were bodies in varying degrees of destruction, sprawled over the tables, sits and floor. Blood spread across, seeping through the gaps between silks, leather and flesh.

On his knees before the high table, before loyal Lord Manderly, was a man, blood soaking the legs through his breaches, was a man, a Frey under assumption, for he was in the midst of a tirade against the merman,

"Get away with this, there will be retribution for sure, you mad fuck. The Twins and the flayed man will turn their wroth upon you. You will be forced to watch as your granddaughters, are handed round the garrison like cheap whores, used as the men will see fit, before your eyes will be turn from that fat head of yours, and your skin shall bedeck the Lord Bolton, and his son, I'd wager. And what about Guest Right? You'll will be as cursed as you yourself see us!" Lord Wyman breathing heavily as he slowly walked round the high tables, supported by his men at arms, before he came to a heaving stop on the on the other side of the high table, above the Frey.

"Ah, but your knowledge betrays your ignorance, for you were all given gifts to mark your farewell marking you no longer guests. Did you really think that you would be welcomed into my hall, after what you did to my son, the Lady Catelyn, the King in the….," He broke off, his eyes finding him then, his face slowly moving to show his true emotion, a smile quickly becoming laughter. The other people at the high table saw him too, the ladies, beauties at that, openly gasping, one of which was holding a bloody knife to her breast like that of a trophy, for what they must think a ghost, before Wyman spoke again, through his laughter.

"But I was not there for as you say, war would not suit me, with my love of eels. We need a more educated experience, not tainted by treachery. What happened at the Red Wedding, Your Grace?"

The other people in the hall turned to Robb then, whispers flying like the wind itself, as the man kneeling slowly turned to look at him, his hair, drenched in sweat, face waxy, and scared.

"They broke their Oaths, Lord Manderly, they killed Lords, they killed Ladies, they killed….' He slowly walked towards the Frey during his words, pausing, his face flickered with pain as his mind turned to his mother, trying with every breath of her body, to allow his freedom.

 _A son for a son._

"They killed my mother, and Stark and a Tully, so that's more Oaths you broke. You slit her…you slit her throat to the bone, and dumped her body in the river. Oh Aye,' He thundered, having completed his walk before the kneeling man, as his fear turned to dread, on his screw like face.

"I know what happened after you robbed me of conscious. That bastard Joffrey spoke of it a great deal in his torment of me. But it's not just me you robbed of family. What happened to your son, Lord Umber?" he asked of his friend, whose face was as his sigil, a mountain of rage and only one way to march it towards.

"Your Grace, he was cut in two and his head cut off." The curt reply, yet spoke volumes of anger.

"Y…Your Grace…" the man before them uttered, before Robb moved down, his armoured fist connecting with the man's cheek. His head snapping back, he all but fell, leaning heavily spitting both blood and teeth out of a ruined mouth. Robb stood, moving back, thinking, before it struck him.

 _Bring me his head._

"Do not worry, my Lord Frey, there is good news here to be born to all ears." Robb paused slightly, as the kneeling man breathed relieve, before glancing back at the Merman.

"Cut off his head, send it back to the Frey's. I fear you mistook me, the good news is for Lord Manderly's granddaughter, not for you." Glancing at the Lady Wynafryd, whose face spook a savage joy, he began the walk back down the hall, steps the only noise, the Greatjon falling into step with him.

"Would that I was strong enough,' came the man's thoughts as they walked. "If I was, I would part his head from his neck myself with bare hands, like I do my Wives thighs." Laughing loudly, the two men left the hall, even as the screams of a dying man heralded their departure.

A/N Hi there, it's been slight longer than I wanted it to be, hopefully people haven't given up on me. Here's the nest chapter, Enjoy!


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